


Batter Off Alone

by PhoenixFire_theWizardGoddess



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Deaths (Non-Respawnable), Deaths (Respawnable), Deployment of Scout-Class fic, Family!Team, Feathers are involved at one point and I am sorry, First attempt in this fandom, Fully aware RED Spy is his Dad btw, Gen, Headcanon that ended up as some sort of story, I do hope you enjoy my trash, PTSD, Psychological Trauma and Episodes, Pyro being adorable, Scout Backstory, Solly might just have to eat his bugle, school shooting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 16:39:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8408965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixFire_theWizardGoddess/pseuds/PhoenixFire_theWizardGoddess
Summary: The Deployment of the Scout Class, from the perspective of BLU Scout; and everything that led up to him signing the contract to join a crazy war in the middle of nowhere.That was the least of his problems.[Headcanon-turned-fanfic]





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there, so, as I said multiple times before: this was a brief headcanon textpost I was typing on tumblr?  
> But it sort of became this weird winding story... and eventuated at 21k+. It is dark, and involves a new sort of backstory for (BLU) Scout, and I hope you like it.

**So, here’s a TF2 Backstory Concept that’s messed up:**

  
  
Alright, everyone just assumes Scout was from a poor neighbourhood and is great at Baseball and not much else, drops out of school and goes Merc.

  
But like, consider this horrific alternative: You don't randomly decide to go killing people unless there’s a reason. _Anger. Money. Fear. Vengeance... even if it’s only in your mind._ _  
_  
And he’s from America, a big city. You know what the rest of the world perpetually hears about from America, especially in regards to schools?  
Shootings.  
  
_Consider this..._ he was a good student, not the best, not the worst. His Ma worked hard to push all her boys through the educational system because she wanted the best for them; and sure, college was out of reach without a scholarship, but if that’s what they wanted then the family would do it.  
  
His brothers were rag-tag and knew how to rumble; but they could also be kind, courteous, protective, and hard-working. Their Ma instilled that.  
  
She regretted that, sometimes; in the dark of evening, hands wrapped around a worn photoframe and tears running down her face. Spy would comfort her as best he could then, but the words were never quite right. There were none that ever would be.

 

Eight boys, different fathers with various reasons to leave or stay. Most tried, at least, to know their sons even in only a distant way. Some never found out, until it was too late.  
Her boys had years between them, ‘cept the twins (sons three and four). Anywhere from one to five.  
The Scout had been the last, born a year and a half following his next oldest brother. And the one above that was only a year older. And so on.  
  
In fact, four of her boys had all been attending their final years of schooling then. It had been so close to end-of-year, Michael practically had the diploma in his hands and a scholarship to the local college in his grasp...  
With the next oldest brother (Johnathan) taking a shot at school president in the upcoming year; and Scout’s next-oldest sibling (Danny), excelling in Mathematics in a way that made his Ma so proud.  
  
Scout, well, he was always an active little thing; difficulty focusing in on book-learning and all, but he wasn’t the only child with that issue. Teachers tried to compensate by making lessons interactive and engaging, where they could.  
Maybe her youngest wouldn’t be a rocket scientist (too many boring equations to deal with for his liking), but she always knew he was going to be something.  
All his other grades were great, fine, in fact. But when it came to Physical Education and Sports... _that’s where he shone_ .

  
  
Recruiters rarely came calling to their school districts, too poor and shabby for anyone to assume the next top athlete was going to spring from somewhere around here. And when they did, they often focused on football, of all things.  
  
He’d often said that with disgust. Like the fact the sport even existed was an insult to his beloved baseball.  
She’d laugh at the expression on his face and chide gently, ‘Things happen when they’re supposed to, just wait and see.’  
  
She never suspected... but who could?  
  
The house was quieter recently.  
Her oldest four were spread thin between work and studies, two of them still in the area, one away for work, and the other already attending some fancy college in another state.  
She worked too. Didn’t have to, but keeping busy was important to the Bostonian.  
  
Raise eight kids and quiet time can go from blessing to curse in an instant; silence was suspicious, ominous, meant something was probably broken or on fire. She used to get twitchy home alone; her youngest had gotten his speed and drive from his mother, and it wasn’t always socially acceptable or possible to go for a long jog in heels.  
Spy always let out a soft chuckle when he caught her doing it anyway, uncaring for the admonishing tutts and annoyed stares it garnered.  
  
She liked to run.  
Often she took (Scout) for a run in the afternoon; best way to wear him out, after all. And with the others being older, and therefore able to be left alone without setting anything too important on fire, it was a good time to relax.  
  
The youngest four, one teetering on manhood and educational freedom; and the other three approaching at their own pace, all attended high school.  
She was always up to fuss over them in the mornings. Didn’t have to, loved to though.

  
  
Tried to make sure there wasn’t a day they didn’t hear her remind the swirling brood of boys that she loved them... and that no matter what happens, they had her on their side. Which was a good incentive, to be honest, as the woman could fight like the devil himself if necessary.  
(Nearly beaten one of the other pretentious PTA mothers to death with a handbag for daring to say something callous about her boys, to their faces. The withered hag hadn’t pressed charges because she was reluctant to admit her role in the situation.)  
  
So that day it wasn’t unusual for her to peck every one of the happy-yet-protesting-for-manlyish-reasons boys on the cheeks (oldest to youngest/ tallest to shortest), and whisper her love-laden goodbyes to each of them. Making sure they had books and bats, shoes and balls, lunches and other items they needed for the day.

  
  
They trundled off to school, a Friday, which accounted for their jovial attitudes. Nearly the weekend; a mess of upcoming homework done at the last minute, time with their older siblings and various sports team practices and games.  
  
She’d gotten ready to go to work, as normal. Checked her purse for house keys before locking the door, and put one foot on the outside staircase leading out to the ground-floor of the apartment complex... when something had felt very, very wrong.  
  
She tried to ignore it... but that feeling was persistent. Strong.  
It had happened the day her eldest’s father (her first husband, Earl) had died suddenly from a hit-and-run.  
It had caught her unawares, a warning from the beyond, when her fourth son had fallen from a tree (aged 6) and broken his arm so badly it took a year to work right again.  
It had been there when she woke up the day when things had gone very wrong, and the poor woman had lost her ninth child before ‘she’ came to term; thanks to a strong fever that had come on suddenly the week previous.

  
  
In short, that feeling was tightening her chest and making it hard to breathe. It was never a good sign...  
  
That indescribable sensation was an unspoken herald of doom, of danger... but she was made of steel. Remaining as calm as possible, she turned back to the apartment and opened the door, dashing to the phone and immediately ringing around to each of her available sons or their workplaces to check they were fine.  
  
If anyone was hurt, it might be one of the older ones. She reasoned.  
  
It took a long time to get each of her young men on the line; too long, her heart was pounding as the minutes ticked by. She was very short with some of them, but they let it slide because she sounded frantic.  
  
Two of them were already on their way, and the other promised to drive by the school to check their brothers.

  
  
She tried to relax.  
Reinforcements were coming; she had to breathe.  
In a last-minute move, she called HIM. Spy, true name known only to the two of them, picked up immediately and listened to her words. He knew that her intuition never seemed to fail; and tried to help by reassuring that he was coming.  
  
_Something was not right_ , and that she had not yet found the cause was disquieting.  
  
The phone began to ring, and she fielded a call from her boss; who queried why she was ninety minutes late to her job. And she was just explaining the situation when frantic rapping at the door caught her focus.

  
  
Anthony was at the door, face pale and clammy. “Ma,” he said, gasped, almost pleaded the syllable. “Ma, I... _oh god_ , it’s...”  
  
Everything went very cold very suddenly.

  
  
“Tell me.” She whispered.  
  
He was crying, her big tough boy was crying and she couldn’t recall the last time that’d happened.  
  
“M-Ma... they’re... _they’re gone_ , I’m so sorry. Mike, Johnny and Danny, th-they’re gone. I’m so... I _can’t_ ...”  
  
She focuses on soothing him, not really able to process anything.  
  
The other two boys are thudding up the staircase outside as neighbours peer out in confusion.  
Someone’s radio leaks out with a devastating report about a school shooting; sombre voiced announcer stating that there were too many casualties to count at current, and at least a dozen students were being treated for injuries.

  
  
And then Spy was there.  
His face said he knew everything, pushing past the boys who all were too numb to glare at the man they barely tolerated (still cautious about the Scout’s father, even though he was kind to them, too afraid to get attached if he left like the others did).

  
  
“It is true, I am afraid, _ma cheri_ . Three of the boys are gone, I 'ave viewed their bodies and identified zhem myself.” He said, providing a solid grounding touch to her arm. “But, as sad as it is to 'ave lost them, I need you to focus on the child who remains.”  
  
She jerks, horrified to have suddenly realised that in all the chaos she had forgotten one of the boys.  
  
“He is injured, but alive. Zhough they did ‘ave some trouble restraining him... as I understand it, the boys were very ‘eroic today.” Spy whispers, tone somewhat proud and yet desolate. “Boys, I will take your mother to ze ‘ospital to see your brother, please do not attempt to drive yourselves anywhere. I do not zhink any of us could take more ‘eartache today, _non_ ?”  
  
\- - -  
  
The rest of that day was a blur.  
Details trickled in like sand in an hourglass; and none of them helped.

  
  
Men, if they could be called that, descended on the school shortly after lessons had begun. Lanky youths with a bone to pick and weaponry in their hands; angry at the world for some imagined plight, turned this hatred on innocent teenagers. On children.  
  
She would kill every single one of them with her own two hands if she could.  
  
Michael had been in an exam when it began; threw a desk at the first man to bang open the auditorium door and start spraying the seniors with bullets. It had been a slaughter, but her brave boy had tried to stop it.  
Broke the man’s arm in two places even before they started fighting hand-to-hand.  
So many students had escaped as they grappled; she couldn’t help but resent that no one had bothered to stop and help him.  
Mike took a few misfired rounds to the torso and died almost instantly. If any consolation could be wrought from the situation, at least he hadn’t suffered long.

  
  
Johnny had been in chemistry, across the hall from where Danny was taking Spanish.  
They’d heard the screams, and teachers had begun frantically searching the corridors for the source of the disturbance.  
Miss Metra, the science teacher, had been shot point-blank between the eyes and her body wedged in the doorway. Her class had become hysterical almost immediately.

  
  
It’d taken Johnny and his lab partner (Susan) to reinstate calm again. Carefully dragging the body back in and telling everyone to shut it, because they were drawing attention to themselves by screaming.  
They’d barricaded the doors, hiding behind the large lab desks and hoping whoever was out there dared not come in.  
  
But then... the younger students across the hall began screaming, and the grade elevens found themselves reacting without thought.  
Yanking aside the protective barrier and picking up anything to hand. Glass cylinders, chairs, still-warm bunsen burners and the like... Johnny grabbed a scalpel they’d used for the dead-rat dissection last week.  
  
Rushing out in a tide of teenage rage to engulf the two men rapidly firing into a classroom full of pinned Spanish students.  
Danny had been down, but still alive when Johnny had come to his aid.  
She never found out what happened next; perhaps she didn’t want to know. The only thing for certain, Spy had broken to her gently, was that the boys died side-by-side and surrounded by classmates.  
  
Having taken down at least one of the men; and leaving the other to stagger off with vicious slashes covering his body -looking for the others of his little group, no doubt. It wasn’t hard to imagine that awful bastard of man, angry, bleeding and lurching down the familiar school corridors; following the sounds of gunfire and screams to wherever the other gunman was… was… causing terror.  
  
-

 

None of it helped. _None of it._  
Everything seemed senseless.  
  
She was not the only grieving parent that day. The hospital was full of heaving sobs; the mournful cries of parents who no longer had a child to hold, and the relieved weeping of others who still did, filled the halls. A cacophony of agony for all involved; because there were no winners this day, everyone had lost something.  
  
Innocence, faith, hope, the illusion of safety in a cruel world... _and their children_ .  


-

 

It was not until her youngest came around, struggling against the tethers that kept him bound to the bed and spoiling for a fight, that she knew the last of it.  
  
That he had been part of a group of students noisily making their way to the gym changing rooms, in anticipation of getting to play baseball for the whole phys ed period, when it had begun. Weapons fire from somewhere behind had sent them running for the nearest room.  
The auditorium seemed closest, safest, but when they had run in... it was already clear that this was not a safe haven. Her poor boy had seen his brother, Michael, splayed on the floor a bloody mess; frantically trying to find his pulse, and shaking the body, until someone else pulled him off.  
Others were shrieking, finding those alive; mourning the older siblings and friends who were already gone beyond where any could follow. Fear etched on their faces, in death. None of the survivors could ever forget.  
  
Footsteps had them running out and away. A whole herd of barely-teenagers, intermingled with the few remaining older students they had found alive and mobile, swarming the halls searching for safety; and finding only a trail of death and destruction.  
  
Quietly, they unanimously decided to find a way to get out of the school. Her youngest being the fastest, he was sent to scout ahead at lightning pace; looking for free corridors and exits. He took the only weapon he could think of, his prized bat. Having had to pause and risk breaking into his own locker to get it; nervously watching the too-empty, too-quiet corridor all around, as he did so. Praying that every turn and click of the small lock wouldn’t give away his position, like a homing beacon.

 

-  
  
If they could just make it to the locker rooms, like they’d originally planned, they could get to the ovals... maybe a teacher would be there to tell them what to do. Mr Turner, the Physical Education teacher who had them this period, had yet to be found; but they all saw an obscene amount of blood seeping out of the teacher’s lounge, on passing. None looking in.

They needed an adult. But it seems that none were left.

  
  
The things he had had to see while searching had obviously shaken her baby boy; he quite literally shook, tugging at the restraints, as he whispered to his mother and... Spy.  
Teachers twisted at odd angles, cafeteria workers bleeding across metallic benches, janitorial staff slumped over their overturned carts... and worst of all, the students.  
  
He’d seen them.

  
  
Some reached for him and called for help. And he promised to find it for them, told them to just hold on... just a little longer. He’d be back, just hold on… and a thousand other promises that spilled from his lips, trying to give them a little hope.  
Some stared vacantly, open-eyed and gone beyond where any living person could follow; he tried not to count them, tried not to mark off the names of those he knew. It was too morbid, like weights about his ankles as he tried to keep going.

  
  
Some lay rasping, awaiting death; alone. And, even though it prickled against his instincts to remain still for even an instant under the circumstances, her baby had tried to comfort them at the last... or designated a member of the group to stay with them, while he kept pushing forwards.  
  
She never wanted this for him.  
  
When she was still a nurse, back before her boys were born... she had watched the light fade from someone’s eyes. It was difficult, even for a trained professional; and she had no doubt that all of these children would be traumatised.

 

-  
  
He grabbed her hand as best he could, when he started talking about how they escaped. Tone rapid-fire babble, all jumbled around gasps that near made her cry for the pain in them.  
  
One of the men had been dead, he saw and told the others; and he’d found Johnny & Danny gone, too. He didn’t have time to even shut their eyes before a second man came back, shooting at him, forcing him back to the others, preoccupied with trying to get them to _run_ .  
  
Some were in shock, some were shaking. There were others now; all ages, a rag-tag group of the still-mobile. They tried not to think about the classrooms they passed, filled with the dying that could not be helped immediately, or comforted in their final moments.  
  
The way back to the auditorium and it’s large, lockable doors, was blocked too. A third man was there; clearly the one who had killed Michael and his age-mates.  
They were forced, en masse, to run down a long corridor that intersected the one the group was trapped in. It took a series of turns and twists, but would lead to the gym locker rooms.  
  
The only problem was, that it left them wide open; sitting ducks, fish in a barrel to be picked off at leisure or mown down by the madmen.  
  
Unless they were distracted.

  
-

  
Her heart sank hearing it.  
Seeing on his face how he’d thought he was going to die, and being determined to make it count for something. Shouting to the others to keep going, as he dashed back out, surprising the men chasing after.  
  
Taunting and provoking until they couldn’t help but run after the little rabbit of a target. One outpaced the other and ended up being attacked by a vicious swing to the knees.  
The bat kept coming down, even as the man brought his fist to bear against her son’s face; weapon forgotten as instinct demanded the gunman defend himself from the blows.  
  
He told the story in such a dissociative way, that it worried her; but she dared not stop him.  
The man was down, his gun was kicked clear across the room; and the other man was outside. He’d flung open the door and run for it as bullets followed, along with angry curses. He thinks that’s when he’d been hit in the back, but he doesn’t remember it. Not clearly.  
  
He turned a corner and skidded to a halt, dead-end.  
The other man came around the corner, and he’d gripped his bat; then beamed, catching his attacker off guard at the malice in it. The knowing.  
As the man stepped forwards, some of the older boys and girls from their group leapt out from behind lockers to attack. Some were shot, others kicked away; but they overpowered him, wrenched the weapon off man. Beating with fist and foot, tooth and nail, clawing and snarling in rage and fear.  
  
It was survival, primal and vicious. The man was just about torn apart under the onslaught.

  
  
As far as they could tell, there had only been the three men.  
One from the auditorium now bludgeoned insensate in a classroom, one torn apart by their own hands, and another dead outside of Danny  & Johnny’s room.

 

-  
  
They made a mistake.  
They let down their guard; running back to the others, all cramming into the small changing  room and slowly funnelling out the small exit. Finally relaxing as the adrenaline began to fade, heart-beats returned to normal from rapid-fire pounding, muscles began to grow heavy from exhaustion... and the promising safety of police sirens grew louder...  
  
...but it was a mistake.

 

-  
  
The last man, see, he wasn’t stupid. Knew _someone’d_ get out and try to go for help or safety eventually, right?

  
So he just sat out there in the open, waiting for them; waiting to pick them off. Sick bastard. _They were only fucking kids_.

 

-  
  
Spy normally admonished his son, and the other boys, for swearing... but let him mumble profanities about this other man, until he seemed to have exhausted his vocabulary, and himself.  
  
The Spy had seen the aftermath of what had happened next, and looked to his wife to attempt to gauge whether she had realised the inevitability of what was to come. Her face was a mask of cold steel; so he assumed, she had.

  
  
Their son’s expression was strained and angry and exhausted; but he managed to tell them, haltingly, about those last few moments before rescue arrived.  
How they’d spilled out onto the ground, teenagers running across the nearby football field (a glorified patch of grass with markings, really, compared to other schools). And how everyone seemed to hear that sickening click at the same time, how it echoed through their bodies, their souls, as realisation sunk in.  
  
And then the bullets began to fly. They thought they were free, safe, away from danger... and yet, it was a trap.  
  
What the fuck had made these men so angry they thought this was okay? Who would kill a buncha kids to get even?  
  
Boys, girls, teenagers. They all screamed and bled the same, hitting the ground with shrieks of pain or silent finality.  
The grass going crimson with evidence of loss.  
  
He saw it.  
The blood, the pain, the fear and chaos. His entire world became this silent hell as it faded out; heartbeat getting loud, vision hyperfocused and the only real thing registering was the bat gripped tightly in his hand.  
  
He did the only thing he could think of... he ran.  Hurdling bodies, dodging those fleeing or falling; and ran right at the man. Who cares? He was dead anyway, right?  
  
He stumbled a few times as things nicked him, and his leg was on fire; but he just kept going.  
Until suddenly, the man was right in front of him; the madman’s gun silent in sudden surprise, as a teenager materialised out of thin air.  
The boy’s expression dangerous.  
  
Their son went quiet a minute, and finally told them of how he just... reacted. Didn’t even think too hard, just brought the bat down on the man; over and over again. Harder than with the other man; he was so angry that _all those other kids had’ta fuckin’ die_ _just because this creep thought it would be funny ta let’em think they’d survived... before he mowed ‘em down._ _  
_  
He was shaking with rage.  
Then someone was dragging him off the... well, ‘corpse’ implied it was still vaguely intact. And he’d screamed, wouldn’t let them near him as they tried to reassure and reason that it was okay, it was safe now. _He_ was safe now.  
“Son it’s okay” and “Just take it easy, he’s gone, can’t hurtcha no more.”  
  
It didn’t mean a fuckin’ thing, though. He just wanted to make the man suffer for what he did.  
  
But someone had grabbed him, taken his bat; he was screaming, as they held him. Someone approaching from just behind, too hard to see… and then everything started to go blurry; he had felt so betrayed, so afraid.

And then he was here.  
  
-  
  
She was shaking; rage and fury intertwined with worry.  
Spy had explained on the ride over that when he’d arrived on-scene, their son had been sedated. And a balisong to the throat of the nearest person involved had loosened tongues regarding the situation leading up to such impudent actions against his son.

 _If these american idiots had just waited_ , Spy could have talked the boy down… he was somewhat of an expert at it, you could say. His derision for the emergency service personnel had not helped the situation, especially seeing as he was wearing a burgundy balaclava at the time; but the knife had certainly made up for it. Encouraging honesty, you could say.

 

He made up for it now, though; with his son so small and sprawled across sheets barely paler than the boy’s ashen features. His wife held tight to their child, as if she would never let him go again; and Spy wished… this could be different. That such an action could never have marred the energetic boy’s lifetime, and impressed the haunted look in those eyes, so very like his own.

  
They sat there, on either side of the bed; and talked to him. Their son, who needed them now more than ever before; until he had calm down enough to stop shaking.  
Only relaxing into sleep once Spy had slashed the restraints open with his butterfly knife. Providing the assurance that the leather cuffs were useless now; and he would not be tied down again.  
  
-

  
As the months wore on, it became clear that the child was injured more than just physically; but mentally and emotionally as well. As one would expect… and he was not the only one.  
  
The funerals were the hardest part, for the whole family.. Because they were burying not one... but three children all at once. It was devastating.

Her remaining boys helped them cope, working around their shift hours and studies to provide comfort, items, anything they needed. Making sure that someone was always with their baby brother, so he’d never wake up alone, afraid, and shrieking in the dark as nightmares plagued.

Her final son had come racing home, as well; but it had been tense, for a bit, as he had not been able to return when it happened and therefore had to go through his own period of adjustment, disbelief and rage. Which did not help the healing atmosphere the family was trying to create.

 

-  
  
Friends, colleagues, neighbours, members of school and council all seemed to be milling around to help. Which was nice, one supposed, when it came to it.  
The school was devastated; the blood just couldn’t seem to be scrubbed out, no matter how hard they tried. So the city tore it down, and began plans for something new, different, better.

  
  
People around the country were horrified; this was the second time in ten years that a school shooting had occurred. It was just too much; no life should be lost under such circumstances.  
  
Motives for the assault were still under police scrutiny. But what did it matter, ultimately? Children were dead, and no paltry string of words would ever justify such an horrific crime.

 

-  
  
Tales of bravery, heroism, sacrifice and fear were taken from the mouths of the survivors and passed onto the waiting press; by ‘friends’ and second-hand family members who wanted their fifteen-seconds of fame on-camera and in the papers.  
Utterly destroying what meagre trust many of the children and teachers still retained in those around them.

  
  
Spy let no reporter even breathe near his wife or their step-children; much less their grieving, angry, scared and barely-functioning child. Still processing the events.

 

His wife, his dear _cheri_ , had had to talk him out of killing everyone involved when the espionage agent learned of a new development. Despite the horror, and the cry for gun control that was taken up across the country... some thought themselves morally righteous to call for the punishment of Spy’s son.  
  
The most iconic photo from the event was one snapped by a journalist, who apparently arrived faster than police for lord knows what reason, and decided to take photos instead of helping the screaming/dying children littering the field.

  
  
_In the foreground, a teenager with bat raised high and blood coating his body, clearly not all his own, stood over what could almost be a body; in the background, small shapes of teenagers twisted and crumpled where they fell. Some had empty faces, others were screaming. The grass was clearly soaked crimson; as were the other children trying desperately to help those around them._ _  
  
_

  
Spy _hated_ that fucking photo; his wife wanted nothing more than to find the man who took it, and shake him until ‘ _that rat-bastard’s fucking eyeballs fell out_ ’. Demand to know why he would do this; put THAT photo on the front page of every newspaper in this country and some overseas, when he _knew_ it would hurt more than help.  
  
Some saw the photo as a symbol; an american child fighting to save his friends.  
Others... could go to hell.  
  
_And one particular woman in particular..._  
  
“He _bludgeoned_ one man to _death_ , and _another_ into a _coma!_ ” shrieked a hysterical old white lady on the television, make-up so thick and wrong-suited to her skin-tone it came through even on a black-and-white screen. “ _How_ can you _let_ a little _thug_ like _that_ get away _with it_ ? Sets a bad example!”  
  
She was a minority in this matter, but she had backing from others who shared the sentiment; and they still tried to hassle the family more than once -at home, at work, at the hospital.

Spy had thought he really needed to murder her and make it look like an accident... old people have bad hearts, _non_? But mostly, he had to stop his wife from killing the woman herself. The things his dear beloved could do with a corkscrew were almost poetic in their brutality… but ultimately would be wasted on such an awful old bag.

  
  
Police had taken statements and eyewitness testimony in order to establish what happened. As far as they were concerned; it was self-defence, and no charges need be brought against the boy.  
  
_If they’d gone after the child_ , the Chief of Police had rationalised to a ravenous press pool upon delivering the verdict,   _they’d have to bring up charges against all the children who killed the other man... with scalpels and glass shards. Which would be ridiculous._ _  
  
_

-  
  
None of it helped.  
  
None of it.  
  
That day in the hospital, he’d looked so small, swathed in bandages. So fragile.  
And yet that rage lingered deep beneath the skin at all times throughout his recovery.  
  
She worried after him; as did Spy, and all his brothers.  
  
He didn’t talk much, and couldn’t move too far for a while as damage healed; muscles tight and seizing as they tried to return to normal. So the poor teenager nearly went out of his mind with boredom.  
  
Being able to talk to, and interact with, other survivors... seemed to help. Most were in hospital for extended stay, or to come for physical therapy once or twice a week.  
But it seemed to lessen something.  
  
It wasn’t the thanks, the physical affection such as hugs, or even the sporadic trickle of gratitude-based gifts from other families.  
It was looking around and counting off the faces of the students, friends, and others he had helped escape.  
  
The loss of his brothers meant something. They’d saved people.  
And he... he’d tried to, too.  
  
He just lived through it, that’s all. And that was the worst part.  
  
_Survivor’s Guilt_ , they called it.

 

Putting a name on it didn’t help.

 

-

 

It took a long time to heal, to find a way to channel the rage and anguish into something productive. For the media to stop sensationalising the situation and let the victims get on with healing in their own ways; let them breathe.

 

Baseball was a good outlet. The boy was great at it, in fact; always had been.

But they couldn’t get him to go back to school for more than a day; though the temporary buildings provided by the council were adequate and well-patrolled by private security.

Actually, many of the parents seem to have the same struggle with their children; they just couldn’t do it. Some were too hypervigilant, some couldn't focus, others would start screaming or burst into tears at the memories while in the midst of mundane activities like sitting at a desk or opening a locker.

 

Too soon, they all assumed.

 

But it continued.

 

A different attempt was taken.

Home-schooling, of a form, you could say. Every day students would group together in the home of an obliging classmate, and a teacher would come to them; focusing on the basics originally, and then branching off as the scheme went on.

Tests were a little difficult, given that students tended not to have huge tracts of space and liked being very close together (and for the final year students who had been attacked while taking tests, there was a series of psychological blockages that had to be addressed before attempting exams with them). But they passed.

 

Surviving seniors graduating a little later than others their age, but no one (university or employer) could hold it against them after what they’d suffered.

The next year or so this unusual schooling system continued, slowly bridging into the new school buildings for an hour or two at a time. Transitioning back into the concept of attending an educational facility; and that’s not to say it happened overnight, or everything was fine, but the adults involved tried their hardest to help. And it definitely did something.

 

His mother worked hard to cope with the situation; focusing all her love and energy into the children that remained, especially the youngest. Spy tried to be around more, especially for his biological son; and occasionally providing comfort to the other boys, as necessary.

 

Slowly, things began to settle. Wounds became scars. The event became just another event occasionally referenced in regards to gun control or child deaths, and nightmares that would have the survivors screaming themselves awake… became fewer in number.

 

The youngest child focused solely on baseball; moving helped him think, and gave him freedom. Nothing could catch him when he ran around the bases, or leapt for to catch a ball in his mitt; and his pitching had improved out of sight.

Although, it took a while to pick up his bat again. Even besides the fact that his brothers had scrubbed the blood off and polished the Sandman until it shone, almost new in appearance despite a few small dints where bone fragments had been removed.

 

-

 

Possibly the only positive thing to come from all the media’s consistent hounding, was the young man getting the opportunity to meet his favourite sporting team (the Red Sox). He hadn’t seen it coming; but when they’d heard what happened, his favourite hometown team decided they needed to meet this young fan, when he was up and mobile again, and play a game or two.

And he never forgot that day. Still had the jersies, one signed, one to wear; and the other memorabilia (signed and unsigned) at home. Plus all the photos, which were his favourite part of the day.

 

Honestly, the youngest had been shocked and mildly overwhelmed having his sports heroes come for not only a visit to his neighbourhood… but one specifically to see HIM, and play a game with HIM.

The memory would always bring a smile to his face, in later years; and reinvigorated his passion for the sport ten-fold. The Red Sox had been pleasantly surprised at how well he played; and said to think about trying out, once he graduated. They could always use his speed and skill on the field.

 

And one day he would. Try out, that is, just not yet.

 

-

 

As he grew older, closer to adulthood, things changed.

Spy is barely ever around, and he sometimes misses his ‘Dad’; but Ma was always there.

 

His brothers tend to hover a bit, frustratingly; even though they have their own lives and partners, children, jobs. It’s as nice as it is annoying.

 

They go to Red Sox games whenever they happen in Boston; and at the end of the game, some of the players often come over to talk. Asking how they are, if he’s ready to try-out yet… they could always use a player like him.

And everyone laughs, because he’s only sixteen the last time he attends their game; he’s going to be sixteen for a long time, really.

 

Turns out, they weren’t the only recruiters keeping an eye on him.

 

-

 

Builder’s League Demolitions company has seen his speed, his stamina, strength and psychological need for a constructive outlet for all the rage he’s got boiling inside where no one can see. And they send a woman, barely older than him, to offer a position at the company; something about Classes, teams and immortality.

 

She comes in the afternoon, and speaks until well into the evening. He listens, frowning as she casually mentions death and destruction, something called respawn, and money.

He asks about the guns, though. He hasn’t had to ever use one; his Ma has one in her purse, for safety, but he doesn’t have a clue how it operates… and he isn’t sure he wants to. The sound they make… that echoing click… haunts his nightmares.

 

This purple-clad lady, a Miss Pauling (who he’d probably think was cute if he could feel anything much at all for anyone outside his immediate social circle), smiles and explains that she would be training the new Class to use their weaponry before dispensing them to the field.

A battlefield, to be exact, apparently. But he could bring his bat, if he’d like, as a primary weapon.

 

He reads the contract over, which surprises her, he thinks. Maybe the lady thought he was a bit stupid because of the accent, but he ain’t. It pretty much outlines everything… money, contractual obligations, duration, the fact that life and death had no meaning, not to tell anyone about the whole thing without permission, weapon dispensation, how the whole thing worked.

 

In short, BLU, fought a group called RED, in various missions almost every day; excepting weekends. He’d find out more ‘on deployment’; but the job was his if he wanted it.

Each team was equally matched, so he’d face-off against another whatever-he-was as well. She wouldn’t say who else she’d talked to about it; even though he questioned extensively, and vaguely in the vicinity of subtly.

 

It wasn’t bad, the arrangement. But something made him ask, knee bouncing up and down with restless energy under the table, “What about… y’know… the _thing_ that happened? Ain’t ya gonna hold it against me?”

 

She blinks. “Wha-... _oh_ , the school… _situation_ . No, no in fact it caught The Administrator’s attention, actually. You’re a _survivor_ , and if you would like to do so, you can sign this contract and become a _Scout_ for BLU.” She pauses. “Ah, no I see what you meant now. While it might be a psychological detriment in some other professions, the whole incident, it actually displayed what we look for in members of the teams. Don’t worry about being disqualified because of that.”

 

“Great. So uh, when does this start?” he asks.

She smiles, “Immediately. That is, if we can get your mother to sign it as well; we need parental permission to take a minor to a battlefield after all… or, failing that, we delay the deployment of your class until you (and your RED opposite) are eighteen and legally adults.”

 

“Alright then.” He responds, thinking about it. Then hands her his bat, “Here, ya gonna need this ta stay alive while explaining the situation ta my Ma.”

 

Miss Pauling gulps, eyes wide. And he laughs… right up until the front door opens and his Ma walks in.

 

Because he hadn’t been kidding.

 

-

 

It had taken some convincing, but she had decided to let him go.

He wanted it; and worst case scenario, he hated it and decided not to continue (which, under the contract, he was well within rights to during the three-month training and initial deployment period).

 

Training was a cute way of saying he and another kid, who was eerily similar to him in build and ability, were taken to a weird gray facility in the middle of freaking nowhere for a week.

At first he was hesitant to fire or even touch the guns; but some gentle coaxing from Miss P, and the snide comments from the other kid ( _who he was told he’d be allowed to shoot later on, if he learned how to do it properly_ ) spurred him into trying.

 

And damn, was he _good at it_ after a couple of days.

 

After that, it was mostly time trials, lotta running, learning to double-jump and do it without throwing his headset fourteen feet away; learning what a dispenser was and how to use it, and trying not to explode or throw up after Miss P gave both of them this weird soft drink stuff. _BONK!_ She called it.

 

The RED Scout got a red can, ‘ _Cata-strawberry-phic_ ’ flavoured; and he, the BLU Scout, got some weird stuff that tasted like a blue lollipop and called itself ‘ _Blue-bomb-ry_ ’.

It spiked everything in your body, and he nearly ran straight into a wall the first sip he’d had; the other guy hadn't stopped in time, and full-on collided with it. He was never gonna let the other guy live that down, it was just too damn funny.

It took a few days to work out how to use it properly, which resulted in a lot of cuts, bruises and broken appendages. They’d tried to switch soda to test the other flavour, once… but Miss P nearly had an aneurysm while screaming for them to stop.

 

“Boy, _whew_ , do _NOT_ do that. _Trust me_ . You might literally _explode_ ,” she panted, adrenaline wearing off. “Well, no, more like… have you ever been poisoned? It’s like that. But explosively, because it is slightly irradiated.”

 

They handed back the cans to their respective owners pretty quick.

 

She softened, “I didn’t mean to scare you boys. But remember how we made you sleep in specific rooms? Well, they’re team-attuned. That is to say, you kind of get doused in certain team-specific healing vapours overnight, which changes your biochemistry slightly. Nothing to worry about, really, it just gets you ready to be healed in battle and makes it easier for respawn to catch you.”

 

**_Because that wasn’t terrifying at all._ **

 

-

 

On the last day, she made sure they were both packed and ready; bustling them to the train station at significant speed. Neither of them talked about the fact there was a random corpse in the boot beside a rusty hacksaw, alongside their meagre belongings; and she appreciated it.

They got on the train, new team/class-specific dogtags jangling about their necks, and managed a wave or two at the purple-clad young woman before they sped out of sight.

 

It took hours to get there. The two boys, Scouts, took the opportunity to glare at each other for a bit; then spoke in short-sentences, each using the Class title, trying to get used to being called Scout instead of their real names. Which, he realises with a start, he never told the other or vice versa. How odd.

 

They’d resorted to racing up and down the aisle during hour four; and the conductor had to stop the train to get them off the roof in hour five and three-quarters. Practically tossing the boys out at some rinky-dink station called ‘Teufort’, an hour or so later; washing his hands of the pair of them.

 

The Scouts stood up, grabbed their things, and tested the headsets they’d been given.

He’d been given a specific line to say; and so had the other kid.

 

“Uh, Class Activation Complete. BLU Scout advisin’ of deployment ta…” Damn, he’d forgotten it already. Casting about for information on the awful place. “...wherever the hell this place is, and _why is there a dump in the middle of this town_?”

 

RED Scout was laughing at him, having recalled the rest of his own phrase and repeated it perfectly.

 

“Scout, is it?” comes a Texan accent. “Sorry we couldn’t come an’ getcha from the station, but the boys’n ah are kinda beat after battle today. So how’s about you walk over to the small building by the station, all rickety like, and use the transporter there?”

 

He follows the instructions, RED Scout trailing behind; clearly listening to instructions as well.

There’s two weird glowing metal things in the room, one glowing blue and the other red. The man on the headset says to just _‘jump on’_ and _‘they’d grab it next time the team did a shopping run’_. So he takes one last look at the other Scout, and jumps onto the device.

 

-

 

It’s a weird feeling, but not bad. Not like the first swig of _BONK!_ that’s for sure.

He blinks as he lands on solid ground again, the entire place is basically blue-and-white, no matter where he looks. The Texan voice asks if he made it, and he replies he had.

 

“There ya are, son!” says the man walking in, and he stops, taking in Scout head to toe. “Hmmm. Ya a mite younger than ah thought, son… but, if the Administration allowed ya to come, then so be it. Ain’t my place ta go pickin’ fights with _Her upstairs_.”

 

He just nods and follows the man to a room marked with a symbol reminiscent of the one on his belt buckle.

“Scout Class, this is ya room. Bit basic, ah’m afraid, but if ya need anything, we can either rummage something up, or take a trip inta town for it. You remember a toothbrush, son?”

 

Scout rolls his eyes, but nods. Wondering how BLU managed to transform his Ma into a Texan man in only a week.

“Come on then, let’s get ya to Medic. Give ya the check-over and the ’chip; don’t worry, he’s gotten real quick at it too.” Said the man cheerfully.

 

“Uh, which class are you?” Scout asks, tentatively.

“Oh, didn’t ah say? Ah’m the Engineer, son, nice ta meetcha.” He leads the way down a series of short but winding corridors; Scout wonders if he’ll ever see his room again at this rate.

 

“ _Knock knock, Doc_ … got the new Class here ta see ya. This here’s Scout.” Engineer says, shoving him through the Infirmary doors and waving farewell before the Medic person can even turn around to look.

 

“Oh,” the man blinks owlishly through small round spectacles. “Guten tag, Herr Scout. My, you _are_ young, vherever did zhey find you? _Kinder_ garten?” he laughs briefly. “Nevermind, _junge_ . Sit up on the table, _bitte_ , and I vill check your vitals.”

 

The obviously-German man flaps a hand at a metal table a few feet away and Scout nervously sits on it. He wasn’t a stranger to doctor’s offices or hospitals, after what had happened; but it was just… it stirred memories, or something. Always made him feel ill at ease. Not unless Ma or his brothers, or yeah, even his dad was there.

 

“Has anything been bothering you? Coughs? Headaches? Palpitations, hmmm?” Medic asks, meandering through standard check-up routine. Tongue depressor to gag on, cold stethoscope that gives you goosebumps, tiny hammer to make you do a seated riverdance. That sort of thing. He even manages to remain calm when the medical man brings a syringe over to draw blood… turning his head to ignore the whole procedure; the German chuckled, and patted his shoulder kindly.

 

“Zhat vas not so bad, vas it… lollipop?”

 

Scout blinks as the treat ends up right in front of his face; it’s blue too. This team really had a theme going on, didn’t they? He pockets it anyway, for later.

 

“Now, vhat do you understand about respawn technology?”

 

His mind blanks.

 

“Ah, I zhought so… vell, basically zhere is a special chip that is inserted at the back of ze neck, vhich reads your biological data und consciousness, memories, all of zhat. Vhen you die on zhe field, it takes your body and reassembles it, vhile keeping your mind intact, ja? Zhen you valk out of Respawn und fight again. It is marvellous. If you vant a better explanation, I am afraid you vill have to ask Herr Engineer, as he understands the process better than I can articulate in English.”

 

He nods, having a sinking feeling where this is going.

 

“Hmmm, I see you have vorked out vhat must happen now. Do not vorry, it vill not hurt, Herr Scout.” Reassured the medical man; but the batter was already trying to work out how to get away from the good Doc and back to his room. Medic sighs audibly.

“Herr Heavy, a hand if you please…”

  


An _actual mountain_ came walking out from behind a door Scout hadn’t seen on entry, hidden behind a curtain and leading to… who knew, a bathroom or something? His mind didn’t wander too far, because he was stuck staring at this giant man moving towards him.

 

Medic snorts, “Oh, do not look so vorried, zhis is Herr Heavy. He is mein friend, and very nice vhen not taking down _RED scum_ on zhe battlefield. Now you have met _drei_ -... _three_ , sorry I forgot zhe vord for a minute there, _three_ members of your team. Engineer, Heavy und meinself.”

 

Scout’s not an idiot. He can see Medic fiddling around as he rambles; and his entire body tenses in response, fight or flight sending adrenaline thrumming through his body.

 

“Yeah… Medic, Heavy, Engineer… haven’t seen the others yet. Think there was a Sniper, Spy, Soldier, Demolitions guy… and I think Miss P mentioned something called a ‘Pyro’ on the road here, and not ta stare at ‘em?” he responds conversationally, still staring at the big man, as if stunned and not working out how to take him down.

 

Heavy laughs along with the doctor. “Oh ho, no, leetle man should not stare at Pyro… they are self-conscious. Be nice to Pyro, they are nice if you are nice… if you are not, should learn to like being on fire.”

 

Scout’s eyes went wide. “ _Oh, good, I always wanted ta go out being roasted alive…”_ he mumbles sarcastically, ignoring the Medic’s approach in his peripheral vision. The man has another sharp implement to hand, and Scout isn’t going to sit still and play pincushion.

 

Just as the German reaches for him, Scout shoves forwards off the bed and bounces off the floor; rocketing into the air and using a double-jump to flip over the Heavy’s head. The door is right there, he doesn’t know where’s he going to run when he breaches the corridor, but _anywhere is better than here_.

 

Something hits him in the chest, and he bounces back from the momentum; winded and searching for what he hit, he falls straight into Heavy’s waiting arms, feeling the tight panic rising up as the big Russian closes those tree trunks about him. _Fuckfuckfuckfuck_.

 

A man appears in the doorway, where no one was before; and smirks. The guy’s wearing the same type’a balaclava, and smug grin, that his dad always wore… so he’s probably the team Spy.

 

Scout desperately tries to cling onto that train of thought as the panic rises up inside; clawing and burning, lungs not quite able to draw enough air. Heavy moves him back towards the table with ease, Medic taking in the sight of the thrashing young man, pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs.

 

“I had hoped to avoid zhis,” he said sadly, as the mumbled litany of ‘ _please no not again not again please_ ’ grew increasingly more fervent the closer Medic moved to the young man. “Hush, _kind_ , you are very safe here and ve mean you no harm vhatsoever.”

 

In a panicked, strained tone, Scout responds, “ _Then let me go…_ ”

 

Medic bites his lip, “I am afraid zhat is the one zhing I cannot do, Herr Scout. Do not vorry, just take a deep breath and it vill all be over before you know it…” he assures, before bringing the hypodermic to bear against the younger man.

 

Scout fights against it with everything in his being; trapped and fragmented between the _here and now_ , and _back then_.

 

Hands grasping around, at Heavy’s, at thin air, trying to find his bat… trying to… _trying t-... trying…_ his eyes finally roll up in his head, and the Scout sags.

 

Medic looks guilty as Heavy places the newest BLU on the table, sliding him onto his stomach with care and ascertaining the head restraint was not cutting off the young man’s oxygen intake. The doctor waits a few moments before shaking, shouting at and even hitting the young man; ascertaining that the anaesthetic has taken proper effect. The German’s whole body sags.

 

“I had read of his aversion to sedation in his files, but I had not anticipated such a strong reaction.” he said, picking up the scalpel. “ _Danke schoen_ for your assistance, Spy; I do zhink ve vould have caught him otherwise. Vhat speed he has, und zhat jump! I vonder how he managed to do such a zhing?”

 

“Da, am surprised as you, Docktor. Can see how leetle Scout vill be helpful to team… and problem for us on field, vith new RED Scout.” The Russian concurs.

 

“Gentlemen, I am not so sure about ze _petite lapin_ being an asset…” Spy adds, frowning behind the mask. “Flighty, prone to panic… can you even imagine ‘ow ‘e will respond if you or ze opposing Medic used ze Crusader’s Crossbow in a match? The child would ‘ave an ‘eart-attack on sighting it, and respawn every few minutes!”

 

“You are being cruel, Herr Spy. I assume you have also read his medical report? It details exceptional damage, hospital stays und physical therapy not so long ago… it is still recent trauma, und has manifested itself in a fear of needles. Zhat is not so unusual.” Medic retaliates, carefully clamping back a fold of skin around the incision site for better access. “However, if ve know he vill react this vay, zhen we can anticipate it and prevent his panic. Zhere is more zhan one vay to sedate someone, ja? Although he may never trust a sandvich from Herr Heavy again, aftervards.”

 

The Medic chuckles at his own joke.

 

Heavy passes over a small glass vial, filled with blue liquid and with something miniscule floating dead-center. Medic uses long forceps to retrieve the tiny item, and carefully places it into the recess he has made; watching it automatically respond by sending tendrils out in all directions, connecting to spinal column, brain, muscle and nerves in the process. He loved watching it work.

 

When it appeared sufficiently connected and settled, the Medic began to reverse his original process until all that was left to do, was simply to close the wound. For that, he brought over the Medigun and flicked it on; blue tendrils of healing vapour reaching out to encompass the relatively small incision, removing all trace it was ever there.

 

Confident it had healed, the Medic gestured for Heavy to help him turn the boy over again; double-checking the uber device, awaiting transplantation on the tray to his left, was still functioning at optimum capacity. He trained the medigun on the boy, just in case, and set it to maintenance mode; as he did in all his surgeries.

 

“Vill you be staying to see how zhe uber devices are implanted, Herr Spy? I understand zhe last one you vitnessed vas your own, and did not have zhe best view.” teased the Medic, as the Frenchman huffed and made to leave. He had not forgiven the doctor for that operation, just yet; claiming it was unnecessary for a support class such as himself, and clearly only done because the Medic had ‘a thing’ for surgery on teammates.

 

The Doctor lifted the Scout’s new blue shirt carefully, mentally matching scars and marks with details from the provided medical reports and histories. Nothing unusual; the patient was healthy enough that this should go smoothly.

 

He picked up the scalpel…

 

-

 

Waking up was a lot harder than you’d think, when you consider you never really wanted to go to sleep in the first place. Blearily, Scout surveyed the room, and wondered if RED Scout was having _this much fucking fun_ right off the bat. He laughed out loud, mumbling “ _...bat…_ ”, to himself before giggling again.

 

His chest was tight, and something about his neck felt really off, but otherwise Scout was alright. Just really out of it. He tried to get up anyway… and fell right off the bed, the shock of cold tiles jerking him most of the way back to reality. Boots appeared in his line of sight, and Scout blinked at them.

“Are you alright down zhere, _junge_ , or vould you like some help?” Medic’s amused tone asked.

 

“‘Mfine,” he answered, wiggling to look up at the other man. “Tiles’r’good. Cold’n’everything. Good.”

 

“Ah, yes, I suppose zhey are. Perhaps ve could get you off zhe tiles und back into zhe bed, ja? You need to rest a little longer, or you vill most likely hurt yourself trying to run off like some sort of excited _hase_.”

 

Without waiting for an answer, the surprisingly strong doctor hefted the young man off the floor with little difficulty and placed him on the infirmary cot he’d been recuperating in. “I vill check on you in a few hours, und vhen you vake up I vill get you something to eat. Sleep now, _kind_.”

 

That? That sounded freaking fantastic, to Scout.

So, he did.

 

-

 

The next morning he was up and running again, literally. Experiencing some minor discomfort at the changed rhythm of his heartbeat; it wasn’t painful, just slightly off, which in turn made the runner feel vaguely displaced.

He ran around the outside of the base, and then again; trying to ascertain where everything was. The Medic had left him alone for a few minutes to go and get some breakfast for them; but Scout was restless.

 

A mess of buildings, ramps and waterways sprawled across a field, and on the far edge of the battlefield, another building sat. RED Headquarters, apparently.

Something small, speedy and red was running around outside as well; and he was half-tempted to shout at the kid, challenge him to a race or something… but that was when he ran face-first into something. Something solid, yet lanky; and he guessed it was a person, based on the swear words that drawled out in an Aussie accent.

 

“I’m guessing you’re the ankle-biter they kept telling me about.” He said it as fact, not question; despite the dipthong in the statement. The man stood up and brushed himself off, yanking the kid off the ground with a smirk. “Scout Class, huh? Well, I’m the BLU Sniper… and I’d avoid me counterpart if you don’t wanna come back to base at the end of the day smelling like jarate, if you know what I mean, mate.”

 

“Er, okay?” Scout nodded.

 

“Right, I don’t suppose you’re supposed to be out here?” That one actually was a question, based on the narrowed eyes scrutinising him through oddly-tinted glasses. At his silence, Sniper sighed. “Come on mate, in ya go before Doc has both our heads for you sneaking out and about without permission.”

 

-

 

Pyro was indeed a surprise. Scout met them after breakfast, as they were sitting outside his door with some sort of plush toy in their hands. He tried to introduce himself, but the masked… person… just flat out hugged Scout until it felt like his bones would break, mumbled something indecipherable, and handed the confused runner the uh, pony thing, before they patted his back and toddled off.

 

Okay then… not what he’d been expecting at all.

 

-

 

He met the last two members of the team simultaneously.

 

One minute he was fast asleep, resting until lunch on doctor’s orders in his room; and the next, someone was blowing a bugle right in his ear, rocketing the teenager into full wakefulness with a curse so profane his Ma could probably _sense_ she needed to tan his hide from Boston. His wide-eyes darted about the room in surprise, alighting on a man in a blue military uniform, with an oversized helmet covering his eyes.

 

“GET UP, MAGGOT!” he shouted, raising the bugle again, while Scout surreptitiously reached beside the bed for his bat. He was going to deal with this guy the Boston way, and maybe cram that bugle _right up his a-..._

 

“Ey, boyo! Now, I know the crazy bugger’s loud, but it ain’t a good idea tae try an’ beat the stupid outta him…” said a cheerfully Scottish voice, breaking the atmosphere. A man in a kilt came bustling in, one hand snatching the offending noise-maker away, and the other pointing a stern finger at Scout. Like someone telling off a puppy for peeing on the rug.

 

How the hell had he known what Scout was going to do?

 

“Oh lad, ye had _murder_ written all over ye face, a’course I knew what’ya were about tae do with that… is that a baseball bat?” The jovial man seemed taken aback by the item, as if his Sandman had personally insulted the darker man’s mother. “How in th’ hell is that a weapon tae send a child inta battle with?”

 

That got the Scot a glower in response.

 

“Laddie, I mean no offence when ah say this but, just what the bloody hell do ye think ye gonna do with that cute little stick against my bombs and Solly’s rockets? Did they even give ye a gun?” He seemed quite concerned, to be honest, but Scout rolled his eyes and yanked one of the other items out of the bag by his bed. It was a ‘scattergun’, and he had some sort of pistol too, but he wasn’t great at aiming it while boosted, just yet.

A can of _BONK!_ rolls across the floor between them, and everyone looks at it.

 

“PRIVATE, THIS IS CONTRABAND AND I WILL TAKE POSSESSION OF IT!” shouts ‘Solly’, but the other man beats him to the can and brings it up close to his face. Scout assumes it’s because having a singular eye makes depth perception - _and therefore reading smallprint on anything_ \- a real pain in the ass.

 

“Ooooh no laddie, no ye don’t. I wouldnae even put it in _my_ body, Solly, an’ ye’ve seen me down things so alcoholic they could practically be _rocket fuel_. Are ye planning on suicide by softdrink lad? Because I’m certain this here beastie’s about 90% sugar, and 10% radioactive something-or-other.” Demo frowns, fixating on the Scout. Noting the confusion and realising he hadn’t introduced himself, therefore the teenager was having a very odd conversation with two strange men in his new bedroom right now.

 

“Well, I’m the Demoman but most call me Demo for short. Quicker to shout on th’ battlefield. This is Solly, our obnoxiously American Soldier. He’s gonna play that bloody bugle every mornin’ at six am, no matter what arena we’re in, so good luck with the whole bat-related snooze button thing. An’ back tae th’ topic at hand… what th’ hell is this?”

 

“Uh, _BONK!_ , Miss P gave it ta us Scouts ta use for a speed boost or something. If ya wanna try some, ya can… but I gotta warn ya, the first time ain’t a lotta fun.” Scout said, vividly recalling the whole running-into-wall and hurling routine. He shudders and then shrugs. “Gets better though. Unless ya drink the other team’s stuff, then ya die, I think… so don’t do that.”

 

The Demoman looks at the can again, and it takes Scout a second to realise he’s reading the list of ingredients; probably knows what the hell all them big fancy science words stand for, too.

 

“Ye’re lucky we have respawn, laddie, ‘cause I cannae think that this drink’s goin’ tae do ye any good in th’ long run.”

 

Scout catches the can neatly, and puts it back in the bag.

 

They all stare at each other for a minute.

 

“Uh…”

 

“Oh right, Solly, why were ye waking the kid?” Demo asks.

 

“THE VERY-AMERICAN MEDICAL MAN STATED I NEEDED TO WAKE THE SCOUT FOR LUNCH!” shouted Soldier, who saluted, spun on his heel and marched out. “MOVE IT, PRIVATE! MOVE IT, MOVE IT, MOVE IT!”

 

Intrigued, Scout gets up and slips on his shoes, following behind with the bemused Demoman trailing along.

 

-

 

Everything was going so well… right up until he died.

 

One minute he was talking with Engineer, wandering around base and learning the layout; the next, someone had shot him right between the eyes from point-blank range, and he was dead before Spy decloaked.

 

It wasn’t that there was a cessation of light or sound; it’s just that if it was there, it was really, really freaking quiet. Like trying to hear someone whispering across the room; while someone shone a light into your eyes, or something. There just really wasn’t any comparison he could think of for the sensation… it was definitely not natural; but it didn’t hurt. In fact, nothing did; and he was downright certain a bullet to the head probably should, at least for a minute.

 

But no, one minute he was dead… then there was this odd levitate-y void full of bright nothing… and then he was falling onto more white tiles. God, did they buy a white tile company to make this base, or what?

 

“Easy son, we gotcha.” Said the Texan, who was patting his shoulder as the teenager tried to work out up from down; body tingling lazily, disconcertingly. “First time’s _real disorientating_ , but ya get used tah it.”

 

Somewhere out of sight, Medic clapped. “Ah yes, zhe chip vorks perfectly. _Wunderbar!_ Und _Danke_ , Herr Spy, for your services.”

 

These people were crazy.

 

He stood up, feeling pretty much fine; which was odd in itself, and raised an eyebrow at the scattering of teammates waiting in the room. In big lettering down both walls, was the word RESPAWN, which inevitably lead the runner to believe that’s probably where he was.

 

“Ah, sorry pardner, but we had ta test ya chip was workin’ properly before the match this afternoon. An’ we didn’t want ya ta die for the first time on the battlefield, when no one was around to talk ya through ya first respawn… not everyone takes kindly to it, I assure ya son.” Engineer explained, leading him towards the Medic.

 

“ _Ja_ , so Herr Spy volunteered to shoot you vhile cloaked, so you vould not see it coming und panic.” The Doctor muttered absently, checking his eyes with a freakishly bright penlight produced from an unseen pocket.

 

“...great, so it works.” Scout finally says, then perks up. “Don’t suppose I get to test if Spy’s chip’s still workin’, huh?”

 

The doctor cuffs him lightly, as Heavy laughs in the background. Spy rolls his eyes, but appears amused; and Engineer is trying to hold onto what some might call a look of parental disapproval.

 

“Oh, _mon petit lapin_ , you would ‘ave to find me first.” smiles the Spy, cloaking.

 

“Hey, I’m not a freakin’ bunny, man…” Scout sighs painfully, annoyed. First his dad starts the freaking rabbit nickname, and now other strange masked men are calling him a damn bunny.

 

Spy decloaks in surprise, way too close to Scout for comfort. “You speak French?” he queries, eyes searching the teenager.

 

“Er, not as well as my dad, but enough to know I hate the freakin’ rabbit comparison… which is why he always calls me that.” Scout admits, not really looking at anyone and missing the calculating look in the BLU Spy’s eyes.

 

“Interesting. Per’aps someone should assist ze Scout to ascertain zhat ‘e ‘as all of ‘is weapons ready for battle; and make certain ‘e ‘as enough of ze softdrink the Administrator gave ze Scout Class. It seems ‘e left ‘is things in quite ze mess, before lunch.” And with that, Spy vanished.

 

Scout refused to rise to the bait, even if the dirty french bastard had been snooping around in his room. Worst case scenario, the Spy’d gone through his baseball cards or knew the size he took in boxers. Not much in his room yet.

 

Heavy places a hand on his shoulder and Scout tries not to notice how he practically freaking disappears in comparison. “Come, vill check weapons vith leetle Scout. Must be ready for the battle vhen it starts, or _She_ gets angry vith team.”

 

He smiles, genuinely. “Sounds good ta me, big guy.”

 

-

 

_“Mission begins in 20 seconds. Objective: capture the intel, train the Scout Class.”_

 

“Any questions?” Engineer asks, leaning over to the Scout as the clock ticked down.

 

“Uh, as far as I can tell, the plan is generally ‘ _Run over there, pick up a briefcase and try not to die too much_ ’, but I think I got it.” Scout jokes back, a little nervous because he was running in unfamiliar terrain. But the heft of his bat in his hands feels solid and comforting.

 

“An’ remember son, if ya need healin’ an’ can’t find Medic… ya come find me, or run back here. Duct-taping ya hand back ta th’ stump _don’t cut it_.” The Texan threw a very pointed glance at the oblivious Soldier, and Scout was left wondering what that could possibly mean, when the siren sounded.

 

The plexiglass keeping them in respawn lifted, and he jogged out with the others… then shot straight past them in a blaze of speed; finally free to run properly for the first time in days. He could hear exclamations of surprise from his team, and knew they weren’t expecting that at all from the new Class.

 

Which was great, but also a problem; because his counterpart was just as fast as him, and was probably… oh, there he was. Scout veered towards the RED blur, and swung out with the Sandman, tensing at the sound of a loud crack at the impact. He managed to shake it off and skid around to face the other runner, who had whipped out his scattergun in response.

BLU feinted right and swung in from the right, catching the other off-guard completely and sending him skidding back across the field. He was going to check if the other was still alive, but a small blue sticky bomb landed on the RED, and Scout wheeled around and began to run.

 

The explosion sent a wave of hot air up his spine; and suddenly the Scout found himself in the thick of the RED team, no real plan in mind. He almost stopped in surprise, eyes wide; but a good shot from Solly rocket launcher saved his bacon; sending the enemy Heavy skyward, along with their Medic.

He ran around the enemy Demoman, and the RED Soldier who launched himself into the air not three feet from Scout; and ran inside the base. Stopping in confusion, not quite recalling where the intel was supposed to be.

 

“Ya take this here corridor an’ go left now, y’hear?” said the Oklahoman accent of the RED Engineer, sitting in some sort of metallic armchair and looking at the enemy Scout with nonchalance.

 

“Uh… don’t we have to… fight or something?” he stutters in response, confused.

 

“Not unless you want a taste of Frontier Justice here,” the man pats the gun on his lap. “It’s ya first day kid, and the whole mission is ta teach y’all Scouts how ta snag the intel. No use if ya can’t find it, right? Now go on, an’ remember, I might tell ya where it is but it ain’t gonna be easy ta get. Now _scoot_ , Scout.”

 

He laughs at his own joke as BLU Scout cautiously jogs further into the base. His headset crackles.

 

“Vhere are you, Scout?” the Medic sounds strained, worried.

 

“Uh, in the RED Base, looking for the intel as we speak. Their… their Engineer told me where to find it, is that good or bad?” he responds.

 

“Ah, no, it is fine. Our Engineer has also told zhe other Scout vhere to find zhe intelligence, it is a training exercise after all. Just be careful, you never know vhere zhere vill be-... _HEAVY, LOOK OUT_!” The line crackled to static.

 

Okay, not good.

He picked up the pace, turning left at the end of the corridor, and then doing a u-turn right back into the corridor as he heard foreign beeping and a muffled voice. He glanced around the corner and saw a sentry turret, which zeroed in on his face and fired a few rounds while he ducked out of the way.

 

He could do this. _He could do this_ . He could do this. _He COULD Do This_.

 

With a yell, he threw himself around the corner and ran in a zig zag formation towards the gun, Sandman out. It kept trying to follow him, firing sluggishly, never once aiming where he would be. He leapt and jumped off the top of the thing; executing a devastating blow on the sentry as he flipped over it, leaving it chirping sadly on the floor.

 

Turning around with a beam, only to come face-to-face with a Pyro.

Well shit.

 

But they were just standing there, making muffled noises at him; this was unexpected.

RED Pyro clapped their hands, as if delighted to see him, and gestured towards the RED briefcase, sitting on a table beside them. Talking at him.

They wanted him to have the briefcase… he gathered that much as they handed it to him, clapped their hands, clapped him on the shoulder, and then shoved him back into the corridor. It was all very disorienting. He waved back, uncertainly at the Pyro before leaving, and it yelled back something he thought sounded like ‘ _Bye-Bye_!’

 

Today was turning out weird.

 

He fiddled with the briefcase a bit, trying to work out how to latch it onto the special bag they’d given him; eventually finding there was a bit of a twist-and-click approach, basically involving tossing it on your back and it clamped down of its own accord. Worked for him. He snatched out a BONK!, closing in on the entrance to RED base, and taking a breath.

 

“Good job, son. Say, ya didn’t uh, hurt Pyro any, didja?” asked the Oklahoman.

 

“What? No. No, they just gave me the case and I waved at ‘em. Wouldn’t attack someone who ain’t hurtin’ anybody.” he replied, absently. Watching the RED Engineer relax somewhat.

 

“Okay then, y’all get on back ta ya base now and remember it gets harder from here.” advised the builder, leaning back.

 

“Yeah, and thanks… I think.” Scout adds, popping the can’s tab and taking a deep breath to steel himself.

 

The Engineer is frowning at him, clearly about to see the spectacle of his life, if he hadn’t already. Scout downs half the can in one go, and drops the thing as that familiar-yet-overpowering energy fills his entire being from head to toe.

 

He lurches into motion like lightning, streaking past the blurs of confused REDs and a few awestruck BLUs; but he knows he really doesn’t have an exceptional amount of time to get to his own base. Managing to shoot in through the opening just before it wore off completely; stumbling a little as he snapped back in synch with the real world.

 

 _‘VICTORY!’_ shouts the same voice as before, and he jumps as it comes through the headset too.

 

He sees RED Scout shoot into the opposing base seconds later, and surprisingly, the message is repeated. Garnering a few confused stares from all teams involved.

 

 _‘There will be no Humiliation Round, this was just a training exercise. Next match in 10 minutes._ ’

 

-

 

There had been no end to the praise his teammates had heaped on him, surprised and pleased at his speed. Though he’d been cautioned not to engage the other Scout mid-battlefield again, by Demo; because that made them both targets for everyone.

 

_‘Mission begins in 10 seconds.’_

 

The siren blasted out, and this time Scout was first out of the room, speeding across the field like last time; curious as to whether the other team would think he’d be stupid enough to follow the same path and make a contingency plan to stop him. It seemed not.

Scout ran, right around the lumbering Heavy and Medic duo, the latter slashing at him as he passed and marring his nice blue shirt with red; and into the base. Where another sentry was waiting; he used the same tactic as before, dodging, flipping and destroying.

 

The intelligence wasn’t in the same spot… _but Pyro was_.

...and the Pyro had a big old flamethrower pointed at the teenager; delightedly shouting something as a burst of flame blasted out, catching Scout across the lower back as he turned and ran.

Maybe he screamed, he wasn’t sure. God, that hurt so much; and this guy apparently _killed_ people with that fucking thing. What happened to _hug-the-scout-RED!Pyro_ of ten minutes ago?

 

They were chasing him now. Scout was panicking a little, but could you really blame him?

 

Then, the arsonist’s delighted litany of ‘ _hudda hurr!’_ cut off abruptly, and the sound of rubber slapping the floor echoed about the corridor. BLU Scout jolted around, against his base instinct, and saw that the Pyro was now spread-eagled on the floor and stone dead.

He breathed a sigh of relief, and looked about for his saviour. His team’s Spy appeared, looking bemused, as always.

 

“Thanks.” he said, and nodded at the masked man before dashing back around the corner to look for the briefcase. It was there, just a bit further in; and beyond that was a whole other room with a table on it. Something told him he’d have to get there to get the intelligence in the next round.

 

He ran back with it in hand, and tried to pass it to Spy… but he’d disappeared.

 

Scout jogs towards the entrance and notices the Engineer is dead; which explains where Spy went, then. He only had a little time before Pyro respawned, and the Scout just knew they were going to try and set him on fire again before the end of the day. The burns were still pretty bad; every movement sent a frission of pain in every direction, and he tried not to think too hard about what that reminded him of.

 

Every step in therapy. Every breath for days after the bullets were removed.

 

He shook his head to clear it.

No, he wasn't there. He was _here_ and it was _okay_.

 

He took a step, and then another… breathing hard, trying to force the thoughts out with every exhale. God, it was so easy to slip back into that moment… gunfire and screams surrounded him now; but he _wasn’t_ going to give up control like that and fall back to that time.

He had moved past it; all he had to do was get the damn briefcase to the other side of the field and maybe kill someone in the process.

Easy.

 

Or not.

 

He snaps back to focus with someone yelling in his ear to _RUN!_ and a large shadow falling over him. Scout looks up at the sound of a metallic click, and a deep, guttural chuckle.

The RED Heavy is staring down at him from a few feet away, and yet, the man blots out the sun from that distance. He doesn’t say anything, and that’s the worst part…

 

The barrel of the massive weapon starts spinning, and he knows he has to move, has to _run..._ but all his brain can do is compare it to the last time something of that calibre had been pointed at him. Someone screams nearby, he can hear the shouting in his headset distantly, yelling to _run_ … just _run_. And he can feel his heart painfully pounding against his ribcage, as it all begins to get murky; reality and memory blurring together until the only thing he can focus on is the man with the gun before him, and the screams of dying people around him.

 

BLU Scout drops the briefcase, and there is a brief announcement about that turn of events that he can’t hear as the runner flat-out launches himself directly at the Heavy and his firing mini-gun. Not even strafing left and right, just flat out running straight at it, ignoring the few bullets that do make impact or nick as they pass; to double-jump onto the barrel of the weapon.

 

He can’t feel anything but the pounding heartbeat in his chest, the fearful rage coursing through every pore, the movement of his muscles as they respond on instinct.

 

Cold, hyperfocused eyes staring directly at the Heavy in a way that made the giant man’s heart sink, as the BLU Scout pushed off, twisting over the RED Russian’s head with wooden weapon arcing around to crush the man’s skull in. He landed between the falling body of the gargantuan man, facing RED Medic; who swiped at him with the bonesaw, but didn’t even get a vague acknowledgement of the strike before he was summarily struck down with the Sandman.

 

Scout’s eyes darted left and right, flicking back to the downed Doctor, the stunned Heavy; taking another swing at the Medic, cracking ribs and watching the German recoil, curling in on himself protectively. Unused to such violence from the opposition. Backstabbing, certainly; but death by bat? Never.

 

Somewhere, Demo was congratulating BLU Scout for his ability to take down Heavy with the wee little stick of a bat; but Scout couldn't hear him.

The Heavy tried to rise, which meant moving his gun slightly; and the metallic click focused Scout’s attention on him again, the teenager whirling about to crack his bat against the larger man’s chin. Sending the Russian reeling for a moment.

 

But, RED Heavy had fought bears bare-handed, and could shake off such swings. The towering man rose slowly, having seen the Scout’s eyes… the same ones he had seen in the gulags, and many times before; knowing the boy was not with them completely. It may require his death to placate the child, which would be inconvenient; but he had taken strikes from his siblings, in their fevered rememberings, and would do so again if necessary.

 

BLU Scout let out a strange wordless cry and attacked again, ignoring that the instigating weapon was out of the equation; too lost and adrift in the memories to _focus, focus, focus_ anymore. His adversary was not responding, but he had to pay, he had to… _fuckfuckfuck_ …

He outright slammed the weapon against the man’s skull with enough force to shatter the dense bone, and was rewarded with a cry. Not much, not what he wanted; just an ‘ _Oh_ ’ of finality, and then the big man struck the ground, unmoving.

 

But BLU Scout hadn’t… he didn’t… he hit again, and again. Covered in blood as someone screamed in the background; the RED Medic manages to knock the bat away, and is nearly pummelled to death in response. He yowls in frustration as RED Medic’s intervention gave Heavy’s body a chance to be captured by the Respawn system.

 

“ _Notagainnotagainnotagain_ ” he doesn’t know if it’s a thought, or he’s saying it, or hell, even yelling it… but that’s all that’s going through his head. The RED Medic is staring at him so knowingly he wants to kill the man; put a fist through that face and keep hitting until no feature is left to identify who the corpse once belonged to.

 

But someone grabs him, and he thrashes against them, despite the soothing phrases and commands to calm down. Nothing is real, _he has to save them, has to… has to help_ . Can’t let them… _notagainnotagainnotagain…_

 

“Zhere is no one here to save, Herr Scout. Calm down, _bitte_ !” cries a harried voice, and all his brain takes in is that the colour blue covers them… and _blue is good_. Red is blood and pain and bad. But Blue is GOOD.

 

Sure, he might be thinking overly simplistically, but everything he had was going into not being caught. His cleats dig into the ground, giving him leverage, and he shoves backwards trying to dislodge the man behind; Medic yelps in surprise as BLU Scout leaps at his counterpart.

 

Though he still manages to restrain the slight runner, easily. He’s starting to think he might as well send the _kind_ through respawn, and consequences be damned… but considering how well that had worked out in the past, he dared not risk it.

Memories could be deleted or worse, respawn could read heightened or altered states as normal and perpetually reassemble a person trapped in that moment of panic, fear or rage for the rest of their lives. It had happened, and never ended well.

 

The battle raged half-heartedly around them, as most team members on both sides had stopped to watch the new BLU recruit lose his mind. Only BLU Medic and Heavy coming over to help while the others continued to fight for the briefcases or whatever this mission was about.

 

“You are here und now, Herr Scout, just breathe and listen to me.” Medic tried again, feeling the struggling cease momentarily as the focus turned on his voice. “I do not know vhere you zhink you are, but right now you are standing vith meinself und Herr Heavy in Teufort, und you are safe.”

 

The pulse in the runner’s wrist thundered under Medic’s gloved hand where he restrained the boy; which was not a good sign. The thrashing persisted, but it was losing momentum; which was a positive note.

 

“ _Ja, gute_ .” Soothed the doctor, motioning to Heavy that he needed to approach slowly and take over restraining the kind. “Look, Heavy is here to help you. If you are tired, lean on him, _ja_?”

 

The transition was less painful than it probably looked; with the Russian man carefully holding onto the Scout’s arms, but providing enough pressure to hold the other still.

 

Medic made a pretence of staring into Scout’s eyes, as if examining him, while fumbling in his labcoat pocket for something. Swearing internally as the item seemed to be missing.

Something tapped his ankle… the RED Medic.

 

The man motioned for BLU to come down to him, where his counterpart was leaning on the RED Medigun for self-healing purposes. The other palmed off an identical replica of the item BLU’s doctor had been searching for, and looked away; both of them pretending this collaboration hadn’t happened.

 

Unfortunately it had taken too long. BLU Scout had caught on… and much like in the infirmary before, he was not pleased. Disorientation making it even harder to understand what was happening or why they were doing this to him.

 

The litany of ‘ _no no nonononononotagainnotagainnotagain_ ’ spewed forth like a tidal wave, but Heavy had his arms pinned rather well, and the runner was losing the strength to fight back.

BLU Medic’s expression was pained, but he resolved the internal conflict by realising that no additional options existed under the circumstances; and popped the lid off the hypodermic needle, whispering half-English, half-German phrases of comfort as he approached the young man.

 

It only took a few seconds, as before, from the insertion of the chemical into the crook of the Scout’s elbow, to the moment the boy’s whole frame shuddered and relaxed. Heavy nearly dropped him, as the tense muscle gave way to dead weight. Instead, quickly scooping the boy up and holding the runner close with one arm; Sacha tucked under the other.

 

“ _Danke_ …” sighed BLU Medic tiredly at his counterpart, as the RED Heavy came running back out of their base, ready to protect his docktor, and taking in the scene. “I do not know vhat happened, but zhank you for not killing him before ve got here.”

 

“It is nothing. Now go.” shooed the other Medic, seeing the RED Heavy ( _his Heavy_ , thought the man possessively) on the verge of fussing over his Doktor in front of the opposing team. Which would do nothing for RED’s fearsome image.

 

BLU Medic turned to his own Heavy and walked towards their own base.

 

 _‘Ceasefire’_ came the voice from above.

 

“Too late, as usual.” Medic spat.

 

-

 

 _‘RED Spy is in the base’_ said the announcement, half an hour later, as the Class in question threw open the BLU Infirmary doors.

 

“What ze ‘ell is ‘e doing ‘ere?!” shouted the Frenchman, startling the stressed-out Medic into diving for his bonesaw.

 

“...vell, he’s a BLU, and zhis is vhere the BLUs go vhen zhey have BLU-boos.” deadpanned the doctor, edging towards his surgical instrument tray.

 

“Very amusing, _docteur_ .” The Spy moves over to the Scout, who was, of all things, restrained.  
He flicks out the balisong, and the BLU throws himself across the room to intercept him… but all the man does is saw off the cuffs with an admonishing click of the tongue.

“Do not. ‘e will panic and make it a zhousand times worse if you tie ‘im down. Zis ‘as ‘appened before, but not to… zis degree.”

 

“Oh,” responds the Medic, casually, picking up a scalpel. “And how vould you know, Herr RED Spy?”

 

“Because,” said the man simply. “‘E is my son, and ‘e should never ‘ave been allowed to come ‘ere in ze first place.”

 

To that, the good doctor had no answer.

 

-

 

BLU Team was understandably confused.

Everything had been going so well, and then… their new Class lost their mind?

And now a RED Spy _(whom they had all reacted rather swiftly and threateningly to, before the doctor waved them off)_ was casually making small-talk with the BLU Medic in the infirmary?

 

_Nothing made sense._

  


“Gentlemen, everything makes sense.” Informs the BLU Spy, slamming an old newspaper down on the table. The mercenaries were silent a moment, staring up at the masked man for elaboration; but seeing he was waiting for a cue to showcase his brilliance, they sighed and nudged Engineer. Who was least likely to be overly-impatient about it.

 

“...okay, grand dramatic gesture aside, Spah, what’re ya tryin’ ta say?” Engie asked, tone tired and not really up for the Frenchman’s melodrama, but trying to be hospitable anyway.

 

“Well, I assumed someone with 11 PhDs could read, but I ‘ave been mistaken before.” Snarked the masked man, but continued. “Most of you ‘ave ‘eard of ze recent _Boston Massacre_ , non?”

 

Most of the team nodded, Heavy and Demo did not.

 

“In short, for our foreign friends… four armed men broke into a school in Boston about three years ago or so, and murdered or injured nearly every child zere, along with ze staff members. It was truly ‘orrific, and sparked international outrage… and controversy, mostly regarding ze gun control policies zat allowed it to ‘appen and ze sheer amount of child victims. But additionally, at ze fact zhat ze children involved were never ‘formally charged’ with murdering the majority of ze men who attacked zhem.”

 

“It was ridiculous for anyone to demand that in the first place!” shouted Engie. “They defended themselves an’ their classmates; those kids were scared outta their wits but they did their best! An’ just cause a couple of the murderin’ bastards die bloody, a buncha old biddies and pompous asses wanna penalise th’ kids involved. That ain’t how it works.”

 

“CORRECT, SOLDIER! THOSE AMERICAN CHILDREN SERVED OUR NATION PROUD AND ARE A CREDIT TO THE UNITED STATES!” affirms Soldier, nearly taking out the Texan’s eardrums.

 

“Agreed, Engineer. ‘Owever, intriguingly enough, as you may ‘ave noticed from ze accent… our Scout is from Boston.” He paused, as the reality seemed to sink in for many around the table. “As far as I can tell, ‘e was thirteen at ze time of the event, lost three brothers to ze attack, and actively bludgeoned two of the gunmen to death with zat beloved baseball bat of ‘is while attempting to ‘elp other students escape. Remarkable, _non_?”

 

“I… ya lost me, slim, how’dja prove all this as more than conjecture?” asks Engie, a little overwhelmed by the information.

 

BLU Spy taps the newspaper again, drawing attention to the picture accompanying the article. “A stunning likeness, _oui_?”

 

And BLU looks… at the dazed, horrified, determined face of their Scout, covered in blood and younger than he was now; standing over the broken body of a man with a gun, with a field of dead or screaming children behind him.  

 

No one can think of anything good to say. So no one speaks.

 

Except Spy.

 

“Oh, and ze RED Spy is his father.”

 

Engineer fell off his chair in surprise.

 

-

 

When he stirs, Medic automatically moves over and shoves RED Spy out of the way.

 

“Herr Scout? Can you hear me?” the German asks, reaching out to shake the runner, lightly. Which garners a jerk, in response.

 

That familiar panic crawls up his spine, tensing muscles to run; but his mind is too out-of-sorts to discern why that would be necessary in the least. Leaving him sort of stuck between two ideals, and grabbing at the first thing he saw to test if it was real… the Medic.

 

To say the German was surprised by the sudden vice-grip on his arm, would not quite encompass the entirety of the situation. It was more along the lines of being taken aback… and a little concerned at how rough the teenagers hands were, even through his coat sleeve. He was certain that the medigun had dealt with all the Scout’s injuries…

 

“You are safe, Scout.” He said, and repeated it once more as unfocused blue eyes latched onto his. “You are in zhe infirmary at BLU Base, und I am here… Herr Heavy is just down zhe hall vith our teammates… _nothing_ can harm you here.”

 

Scout exhaled shakily, and let the good doctor go. Roving eyes clearing as they took in the surroundings, matching them to mental recollections of the place.

 

“ _...I’m sorry_ .” He finally managed, looking at the Doctor again. “ _I didn’t…_ ”

 

Medic softened, “Herr Scout, ve all have zhings in our pasts that ve do not speak of openly, and some haunt us even now. You reacted out of instinct, for what reason I am not entirely certain, but you are not zhe only one to have done so on zheir first day.” He assured.

 

“Vhy, on mein first day… zhe RED Sniper pointed his veapon at me, obviously, from a turret… und I lost control. It reminded me of a time vhen… ah, but you know vhat happened in mein country, and vhat zhey did to anyone zhat did not conform. Ze man vas in nineteen pieces before our Spy could stop me vith pressure-point strikes… it vas not a good day for BLU. Und ze others have all had zheir own moments… ve never talk about vhat ze Soldier did, so remember not to ask, _junge_ , but zhe rest of zhe team vill most likely tell you about zheir own experiences, vhen they are ready.”

 

“ _Oh…_ ” Scout sighs, curling in on himself to rest folded arms on his knees. “ _But I didn’t… mean ta… the others… know dat, right_?”

 

“Of course, _kind_ , of course. It is alvays a shock vhen a teammate has an attack of zhis nature, but it is quickly forgotten. Has zhis happened before?” he queried of his patient.

 

“Uh, yeah, just… well no, kinda twice I think. Don’t remember one of ‘em. The first time was a few months aftah the… the massacre… an’ some guy thought he’d jump a bunch of nervous kids fer deir allowances. Who th’fuck does dat, anyway? Kids get mown down by a buncha gun-lovin’ assholes, and this guy goes around waving weapons in th’ faces of th’ survivors!”  Scout was shaking with anger, but neither man present intervened.

 

Nor did the Medic ask for clarification as to what the batter referred to.

He did, however, grow more intrigued and strained; as the more emotive Scout got, the stronger his accent, which made catching and translating it a little difficult for the German.

 

“Had my bat, we’d been playin’ baseball in da park. Da few of us who could still walk or at least shamble ‘round enough… mosta th’ others were still in th’ hospital or learning how ta move deir arms ‘n legs again. Ma and my dad knew I’d hate being stuck in a small room, so’s dey took me home early; an’ I jus’ got used to movin’ again on my own. But playin’ helped… and ‘sides, not like I woulda gone out without my bat, anyway.” He exhales, eyes harsh.

 

“Don’t remember reactin’, but I hit the guy real fuckin’ hard, an’ th’ others helped. Dat gun in our faces… we panicked. Passersby had ta pull us offa th’ guy, and calm us down til the cops arrived an’ called our parents. Dad weren’t pleased at all… said I shoulda just cracked th’ guy one in the place he’d shown me durin’ self-defence trainin’; but he calmed me ‘n th’ others down. He’s good at dat.”

  


“I am indeed, _Nathaniel_.” said the RED Spy, coming into view of the young man, and making him flinch in surprise.

 

“ _Holy shi-_ ... Dad? What’re you…? How’re… hold up, is dat why ya wear th’ freakin’ mask alla th’ time?” Scout glares at the maroon-masked man; mind running through scenarios as to how  
Spy was actually here. Stomach-dropping at one singular possibility. “ _Am I… in trouble?_ ”

 

The tone was soft, timid almost.

 

“ _Non, mon petit lapin_ , you are not. Zhough ze Administrator will be when I get my ‘ands on ‘er. I specifically forbade ‘er from seeking you out, and zhis is ‘ow she responds?” RED Spy was pretty pissed. “You should not be ‘ere, Nathan, _mon fils_ . Explain ‘ow you will finish school, ‘ere… and… ‘ow did you get your Mother, _ma cheri_ , to sign ze permissions for you to be consigned to zhis little war game, anyway?”

 

Scout didn’t look his father in the eyes.

 

Spy already knew, from that reaction alone, and sighed deeply. “Ze Administrator sent Miss Pauling, didn’t she? Of course… zhat young lady is charming and straight-forward, just enough to woo both you _and_ your Mother.” He rubs a gloved hand over tired eyes. “But it does not matter, you are going ‘ome, and forgetting zhis ‘Scout Class’ nonsense.”

 

“Hey! You don’t get ta decide that for me, Dad!” Scout shouts, twisting to half-kneel in the Spy’s direction and point an accusing finger at the guy. “For one thing, Miss P is real hot and sweet an’ even Ma said so, _an’ I didn’t need ta know dat about her preferences;_ but two, she gave us the choice of the Scout Class starting now, or waiting til we turned eighteen. So, really, even if ya send me’n’the other guy home now… we’ll be back in two years.”

 

“But how can you say zhat, Nathan?” Spy spits, losing some of his patented composure. “Today was a disaster, you beat my team’s ‘eavy to death with your bat, at ze mere sight of ‘is weapon! And you would ‘ave done the same to ze Medic, had your own not interfered!”

 

“ _Fuck you_!” explodes the response, “It was gonna happen here or at home, ya know dat, dad! It already did before… where else am I gonna go ta deal with it, where the victim can just come back from da dead and kick my ass ten minutes later?”

 

Spy paused, surprised at the thought that had gone into it. He folds his arms. “Indeed. It ‘as ‘appened previously, but not so explosively as zhis… I need you to understand zhat I am saying zhis out of concern, as your father. What if it ‘appens everytime you step on ze field, Nathan? What zhen? It will not be good for you.”

 

“And what if it don’t?” Scout counters, face equally as set in an adamant expression.

 

The Medic interjects. “Herr Spy, zhere are no guarantees about zhe human mind; and for some, meditation and acupuncture vork… for others, a physical outlet helps to combat trauma. Vhere else could you send zhe _junge_ , realistically, vhere he vould be able to have such a violent breakdown… and not kill anyone permanently?”

 

“Stay out of zhis.” Hisses RED Spy.

 

“Nah dad, he’s got you cornered. I can do this, and ya know it’s the best place for me, right now. Er, ‘sides, it’s probably better ta work out the aggression with my bat now, before I get ta try out for the Red Sox… don’t think they’d take too well ta me bludgeoning the other team’s short-stop ta death or nothing.” He laughs weakly, cringing under the Spy’s glare.

“Ain’t gonna know what’ll happen until I try again, alright? Just… trust me for once, dad. If it’s too much, ya can tell the Admin lady to ram my contract up her ass, and I’ll go home ta Ma… got a few months’a trial period and all.”

 

Spy straightens, not quite the answer he’d wanted; but good enough. “Fine. But zhis ‘ad better not ‘appen again…” _Because you scared the hell out of me_ , is left unsaid.

 

He puts a hand on his son’s shoulder, and does not shove him off when the boy wraps around him as best the teen could from the bed. Spy pats him on the back, trying not to compare the lanky young man to the child he used to have to carry to bed everynight, from increasingly bizarre places where the small boy had fallen asleep, utterly exhausted from running about and uncaring that perhaps halfway up the stairs and upright was not the best place to nap.

“But, if it does, you will come to me and we will talk about it.” Spy compromises. “I am your father, and I am here for you. Although, it may be hard to explain to your mother, as our jobs literally require us to murder each other on a daily basis…”

 

BLU Scout pulls away, pale. “Er… yeah, let’s leave that bit out, alright?”

 

RED Spy laughs briefly, “Of course, _mon petit lapin_.”

 

BLU Scout groans and flops back on the hospital cot. “Ohmygawd what is with you French and calling me a freakin’ rabbit?!”

 

When he looks up, the only one left in the room with him is BLU Medic; whose expression is equal parts amused and guilty. He shoves up on his elbows accusingly, “Hold up, don’t tell me _‘junge_ ’ means rabbit in German…”

 

“Of course not, silly _kind_ , it means ‘boy’. Now, ‘ _hase_ ’, vhich I have been calling you, _does_ mean rabbit…” beamed the man, and getting a groan in response. “Now, does anyvhere hurt? I used zhe medigun vhen you vere unconscious, und therefore could not get feedback on if all zhe BLU-boos had healed.”

 

“Er, yeah… I’m fine. Thanks for… reacting, I suppose, and healing me. Do ya think the other Heavy and Medic are mad at me?” he asks, trying to think back to what exactly had happened.

 

“I… vould have to ask zhem, but I know zhey have seen human suffering before, and had zheir own… moments of recollection on zhe battlefield. Zhe Heavy, like mein Heavy, vould understand… but zhe Medic may ram a bonesaw through your sternum vhen next you meet, _ja_?” The Medic assured, focusing the gun again and flicking the switch to allow for overheal.

 

“Holy shit, that’s… pretty awesome.” Scout sighs, trying to relax but feeling overly-energised at the same time. “Don’t suppose it’s meal-time at all, huh?”

 

“One moment, you impatient little imp… give me your hands.” Medic says, flicking off the machine and moving over.

 

“Oh...kay, Doc, but I gotta tell ya, I have a _wicked_ crush on Miss P, and I also can’t fight Heavy fer ya affections.” The Scout teased, feeling secure enough to sass the doc. He got a light cuff to the ear for that.

 

“Silly _kind_. No, I vanted to see if… hmm, no, it has not healed zhem. Interesting.” The Medic turned the batter’s hands over, tracing hard contours and callouses. “Perhaps you should try gloves, mein junge. It seems zhe bat is wearing your hands avay to nothing.”

 

“Nah, gloves make my hands all sweaty and gross; hand to hold onta the bat after a bit.” he responds.

 

“Vell, that leaves one option, but Herr Heavy vill have to help you, as I am not good vith non-medical bandaging. Ask him about handwraps next time you see him, und he vill show you how; zhey should protect, provide grip, and align ze bones in your hand so as not to shatter vhen you inevitably punch something. No promises zhough.” Doc smiles, and lets go. “Come, it is time to have something to eat. You are thin enough as it is, vithout a good meal you vill blow avay in zhe wind!”

 

Scout nearly falls off the bed, laughing and sliding down to the floor to follow Medic to the main doors. “Aw man, I ain’t that little…”

 

“ _Is leetle to me_.” interjects Heavy, opening the Infirmary door. “Food is ready, come and eat. Must be tired after first battles.”

 

Scout’s flat-out greatful the big guy doesn’t mention the whole freak-out fiasco. But he knows someone will. “Oh hey, Doc said ta ask ya about handwraps or something, ta stop my hands from getting all fucked up while fighting. Yeah?”

 

Heavy looked to Medic for a moment, eyes raised at the bombardment of accent and slang, before responding. “Da, vill help leetle Scout vith hands. After food… now come, or Heavy vill carry you in front of team.”

 

“Aw hell no!” Scout shouts playfully, and dashes out of the room ahead of the older men. Only to return two seconds later, realising he didn’t have a firm enough grasp on where everything was in the base, to find the dining room on his own. They try not to show their amusement too obviously.

 

-

 

Something was quickly snatched off the table as they entered, and the rest of the team looked way too innocent about something. Even Pyro… which was confusing. How could a gas mask look completely innocent?

 

Nevermind. He could smell something delicious wafting out from the kitchen.

 

“We’re having burgers for… whatever proper meal comes between Lunch and Dinner, son.” Greeted the Texan, nodding as the last three members of BLU arrived. “Ya wouldn’t believe th’ fight ah had with Spah over here about it. He seems ta think that even th’ way I do burgers ain’t right.”

 

“Heh, you tell him Engie,” Scout shoots back, raising an eyebrow at the BLU Spy. The masked man was glowering, like someone had told him he could not marry the eiffel tower or something.

 

There was an awkward silence for a moment, then Demo broached with all the tact of a runaway locomotive. “Ye doin’ alright there boyo? Only, ye kinda lost it on th’ field before…”

 

Pyro’s gloved hands went over their gasmask filter, as if gasping at a conversational faux pas.

Sniper put his head in his hands muttering about ‘subtlety’, and Spy glared at the man.

 

“What?” shrugged the Scot, “Isnae like we weren’t thinkin’ it. Might as well ask before we play house ‘n pretend everythin’s fine.”

  


“It’s fine, I’m fine. Didn’t mean ta freak out on ya, it just happened.” shrugged Scout, feeling oddly at ease about the situation. Maybe he wouldn’t have been so calm without the earlier yelling match with his dad, or Medic and Heavy’s solid presences behind him, but he was.

 

“We ain’t blamin’ ya for that, son. Just wanted ta know that ya doin’ okay, now.” Engineer adds, gesturing to an empty seat at the table. Which the runner slid into, knee already bouncing at the stillness sitting seemed to insist upon. Engie’s goggles appeared to look down at the wiggling appendage, “Ya sure ya’ll right?”

 

“What? Oh, that. Nah, that’s normal. Can’t sit still, ‘specially not with that whatever doc did with the blue gun thing…” he answers, thinking hard at his knee to _cut that shit out now before they think you’re weirder than you are_.

 

“Fair enough,” shrugs the builder. “Mah daughter’s th’ same, ya try to sit her down and talk, but she’ll bounce offa the ceiling after a few seconds of lookin’ at a blueprint. She’s gonna take some sport by storm one day, hoo boy, world won’t know what hit ‘em.”

 

Pyro says something, as they pass, clapping Scout on the shoulder as they disappear into the kitchen.

 

Spy’s gaze makes Scout feel like he’s being x-ray’d by the world’s most perverted Superman.

“Er, buddy, for one thing ya look like my dad and for another, last time someone looked at me like that I got laid…” he snarked, hoping to get the Spy to back off a little.

 

In actuality, the other smirked, steepling his hands. “Oh, I do not zink anyone ‘as such low standards for something like zat, _lapin_ , let alone myself.”

 

Scout raised a finger and opened his mouth to roast the guy in response, and his mind went blank. “Dammnit, I had a good one for dat… give me a minute.”

 

“Of course, rub both braincells together and see what ‘appens.” Spy gestures, magnanimously. “Now, about ze RED Spy being your father…”

 

If he thought that reveal would shock Scout, it didn’t do much at all.

“Not a problem, he’s grounded me enough for stupid things over the years - _that were totally not my fault by the way_ \- that I could freaking destroy him for the next decade out here on the field and not feel guilty ‘bout it. Speaking of destroying shit, is the kitchen on fire or am I just that hot?” he was rambling, trying to stall so he could come up with a better excuse; but the kitchen really was on fire.

 

“Nae, laddie, th’ Pyro’s just makin’ sure those hamburger patties are well done. Kitchen’ll be singed, at best.” Demoman smiles, raising his bottle of whatever-that-was, staring at it, then looking at the Scout. “Would ye like some of me Scrumpy?”

 

He’s about to respond positively to the offer, when Medic smacks a hand on the table.

“Nein! No, do not give zhe _junge_ any alcohol, as I understand it, you cannot drink in zhis country until you are… vhat is zhe english vord for ‘achtzhen’?”

 

“ _Eighteen_ . But alas no, those are Australian rules, in America you must be twenty-one. A pity, then, _non_?” smirks the Spy, and Scout briefly wonders if he could get away with slamming the guy’s face onto the table, as some sort of flashback aftermath or something.

 

“Exactly.”  says Medic, looking pointedly at the newest Class as if to cement the statement.

 

“Wait, then how didja sign up for all this then?” asks the lanky Australian from a few seats down; peering at the runner from behind his shades. “Thought they didn’t let minors do shit-all in this country.”

 

“ALL AMERICANS, NO MATTER THEIR AGE, ARE READY FOR SERVICE AT ALL TIMES!” Soldier adds, unhelpfully. Nodding approvingly at the Scout, which didn’t make him feel a whole lot better.

 

“Er, no, normally they don’t. Miss P gave us the option ta wait until we turned eighteen before being deployed as Scout Class, or uh…” he paused, trying to think of a way to phrase it that didn’t sound ridiculous. “...or _wecouldgetourparentstosignpermissiontoletusjointheteamsasScoutsbeforethen_.”

 

“I’m sorry, what the hell did you just say?” blinks the Sniper, confused.

 

“Said that parents, _mamushka_ , had to sign permission to be here, da?” said Heavy, having puzzled out the string of words fastest. The man’s hearing was sharp, and he was always attentive when people spoke; so he could piece together what was said in English, and join in conversations. But Scout didn’t know this, and it caught him off-guard.

 

“ _Dude, ya just sold me out…_ ” he whined, using the same tone he often employed to get his hands on the prize in the cereal box when all his brothers wanted it. Shit, don’t go there. Don’t think about them. Don’t.

 

“Oh, am sorry leetle baby man,” teased the Heavy, grinning maliciously in the way only older siblings seemed to do. “Does leetle baby Scout need hug now? Can call mamushka to come and pick you up…”

 

His bellowing guffaw is silenced by Scout expertly tossing a stick of gum at him; bouncing it off the man’s forehead, with a smirk. “Hah, ya dead, big guy.”

 

The rest of the team seemed to be relaxing around him, from what Scout could tell without looking. Hypervigilance wasn’t a major factor in his life anymore, but… something a little above average was there; especially after an… episode. He could tell what was happening in the kitchen, if he focused hard enough.

 

“Brrrguuurhs!” Pyro exclaims, bustling out of said room with a large tray of patties. Engineer jumped up to help, and they both went back for the buns and fixings.

 

“So what else do ya know?” Scout asks, fixing Spy with a curious stare. He feels his teammates squirm slightly, and knows already what Spy must have found out. The tension is creeping up again, good. He lets it build for another few seconds, before shrugging. “If ya wanted to know about the… Massacre… ya coulda just asked. For a Spy, ya really ain’t great at hiding things.”

 

He looks pointedly at the floor, where he knows a newspaper is wedged between chairs with… that photo… on the front. “Never did find out exactly why they did it, which sucks… but the one that’s still alive could always be persuaded ta talk, if they’d just let us have five minutes with him. But apparently that’s against some human rights law or whatevah.”

 

“And your father would not ‘elp you get revenge?” asked Spy, somewhat surprised.

 

“Nah, he said it’d be too obvious if th’ guy was beaten ta death with a bat… I offered ta do it with my fists, but he said dat was also traceable. Mostly I don’t care, th’ guy got locked up for life somewhere ages away… and the others are dead; so it’s not like ya can hurt ‘em no more.” He sees the Medic looking confused, and gestures for someone to pass the newspaper to him. “Here doc, it’ll all make sense in a minute.”

 

“And anyway, it’s not like the last guy ain’t in a shittonne a trouble inside, either… ya know how many’a those criminals were outraged dat he thought it was okay ta kill kids? I doubt he’s spent a day without someone remindin’ him of deir disapproval.” Scout grinned, darkly. “But if ya got questions, just ask… it ain’t gonna be like… like what happened today, if ya do. That was… something else dat caused it.”

 

Medic swears in German, but the table ignores it, having had the same reaction.

 

“Are ye sure ye want tae dig it up, lad? Wasnae it only a few years back?” probes the Demolitions expert, eyeing him warily. “Ah still dinnae enjoy recantin’ the tale of me lost eye, and that happened when I was a wee lad…”

 

“Heh, you kiddin? Everytime we stepped out the freakin’ door someone was demandin’ we talk about what happened. Reporters, counsellors, the nurses, that one shrink with waaay too many snowglobes, ya family… it’s sorta just a story now, ya say something enough and it don’t mean nothing.” Scout shrugs, that’s the best way he can articulate the mental divorce between remembering events as they happened factually, and recalling the memories that paralysed and tore at his heart in the depths of night after a bad day.

 

In the silence that followed the statement, Engie slid a burger in front of Scout, and patted him on the shoulder. “How boutcha just eat something before ya fade away ta nothing, there son. Look atcha, strong breeze’d take you halfway to Teufort.”

 

The rest of BLU burst into laughter, and Scout lets out a strangled, _“Hey!”_ of offence.

 

“See? I told you I vasn’t zhe only one zhinking it.” Medic beams at the teenager, picking up his own burger and filling it with far too much of some condiment Scout couldn’t name. “Now eat, or ve vill have to duct tape you to zhe floor vhen zhe evening vinds come in…”

 

Scout snorts into his mouthful of burger, and rolls his eyes as the team howls with laughter.

 

-

 

Demo hadn't been lying about Soldier and his goddamn bugle.

 

Scout hadn’t been lying about trying to make the man eat the bloody thing.

 

“It’s _6am_ , the world doesn’t _exist_ at _6am_!” he shouts, whacking the military man with his pillow, trying to knock the offending instrument away.

 

The commotion stirs mercenaries from other rooms into the hallway, assuming the worst… and pausing at the sight of the new Scout engaged in a fierce feathery battle with the rocket-jumping rogue.

 

The dented bugle get struck in a lucky shot, and gets lobbed at the pyjama-clad Heavy; who sidesteps quite gracefully, yanking the Medic out of harm’s way in the same movement. It clinks off the wall and drops to the floor. And Soldier decides that he needs reinforcements.

 

“MEN, GET THE PRIVATE! HE IS ASSAULTING A pffft SUPER-pffth-IOR OFFICER WITH BEDTIME WEAPONRY!” The Soldier had to pause and perpetually spit out mouthfuls of feathers, during his call for assistance. The others watch on bemused, until Demo slinks up behind the helmet-blinded man and smacks him one with the Scot’s own pillow.

 

Soldier lets out a strangled, betrayed cry of “INSUBORDINATION!” and hits the floor.

“AVENGE ME, PRIVATE!” he orders Scout, dramatically. The newest Class salutes, seriously, and aims for the Demoman with his pillow; Soldier, below them, is already half-covered in a layer of feathers.

 

It’s strangely dramatic and beautiful.

Somehow.

 

“Ugh, _kinder_ … it is too early for zhis,” whines the Medic, not yet awake enough to process whatever nonsense the Americans had started. He turns to Heavy, trying to get backup, and pauses at the mischievous smirk on the other man’s face.

 

“ _Nein_ , Heavy, _nein_ …” he’s backing away, but the Russian is grinning wider and closing the distance quickly. With a loud _pomf!,_ the Medic is brought into the fray, and he darts away to grab his own weapon with Heavy in pursuit.

 

He’s surprisingly quick, when you take the weight of the medigun off him… and Scout shouts, “Ya know what, doc? I changed my mind… if ya can run like that, our kids’re gonna be the fastest in the world.” Giving absolutely no context whatsoever, for why the German was hooting with laughter as he loped away.

 

Pyro is utterly delighted, and takes it upon themselves to get Engineer involved in the game… who just starts to laugh, as he chases the arsonist around the base with a pillow.

 

Spy… has clearly cloaked himself to get out of the mess, everyone assumes. That is, right up until Scout is taken down, dramatically, by an invisible adversary… and a faint, ‘ _hon hon hon_ ’ can be heard the whole time he’s falling.

 

Soldier surges up out of the layer of feathers to hold the boy to him and shout dramatically at the sky about how young he was and that war was hell, while said Scout tries not to cry with laughter. Demo swinging wildly in all directions so Spy can’t backtstab him with a pillow.

 

He gets taken out anyway when Heavy comes dashing through the corridor, pursued by an armed Medic. Pyro tosses a pony plushie into the Doctor’s face, blinding him for a moment, and Heavy takes the opportunity to swing the smaller man up into a hug; laughing uproariously.

 

Engineer comes panting into the room, covered in feathers and wheezing small chuckles out at the situation. Pyro gets him with a plushie as well, so the Texan immediately falls over dramatically into the pile of feathers strewn all over the floor.

 

All that can be heard is wheezy delight and laughter, interspersed with gasps for breath, for a moment or two. And that’s when the doors to the corridor burst open, a flustered, half-awake Sniper looking around for whatever the chaotic calamity of sound had been caused by. Fully expecting BLU to have been overrun by drop bears at this point…

 

He skids to a halt, looking at his _downed_ (in more ways than one) team, and frowning. “What the _bloody hell_ happened here?” he asks, then backtracks. “Nevermind, don’t wanna know.”

 

The team is grinning up at him evilly, and the Sniper can’t seem to find the door handle to safety without turning his eyes off them. He takes the risk, not trusting he won’t be swallowed alive by the feathery carpet, in the meantime, and grabs the doorknob…

 

“ _Bonjour_ , monsieur Sniper.” comes a voice he knows too well, and the Australian finds himself face-to-face with the bloody BLU spook. “ _Au revoir_.”

 

“Crikey.” The lanky sharpshooter manages to mutter, before faced with pillowy annihilation.

 

-

 

If this was what BLU was like every morning, Scout would never leave.

Breakfast had been filled with giggles and at least two recreations of Scout’s ‘demise’ involving the Soldier’s loud cries of despair to the ceiling. He had a feeling that was never going to be forgotten…

 

Before everyone set off to get dressed in their team attire, and do a weapons check.

No matter where they went, feathers seemed to cling and follow every Class; and eventually, everyone just accepted it. Ending up standing about in respawn at five to eight, tittering and snorting like children who had played a good prank but couldn’t risk being caught for it.

 

He felt… good. Okay.

Despite what happened yesterday, the gnawing fear that it would happen again today seemed to have dissipated during the chaotic pillow war of that morning. Which, yeah, made sense.

When one’a his brothers was down about something, the rest of them would just start doing something batshit insane or whacky and pull the rest of the boys into it; until everyone was having a great time. Never failed to work.

 

Nice to know it worked here, too. And that his teammates were just as  much a bunch of goofballs as his brothers… had been.

 

_“Mission begins in 30 seconds.”_

 

Intel mission again, a do-over from yesterday, apparently.

That’s fine by him, he’d get _all_ the damn RED briefcases today, and no one could stop him.

 

-

 

Okay, maybe a rocket to the face could stop him.

And a sentry to chest. Also that one time the RED Demo hit him with his big glass bottle of scrumpy, out of nowhere.

 

...and they weren’t going to talk about the fact a Sniper got him. That was just plain embarrassing.

 

He knew his dad was around here somewhere, probably watching and waiting for Scout to give up or lose it. But he wouldn’t.

 

Scout was getting better at the whole gun-thing, both in terms of having one aimed at him, and aiming one at others. Still, he noticed that the RED Medic and Heavy duo, even Ubercharged ( _which, apparently was something the freaking Doc had done to him on day one, but he wasn’t sure why_ ), kept a wide berth around the runner on the field.

 

It was getting awkward, ‘cause he kinda wanted to talk to THEM about yesterday.

 

-

 

And of course, the universe being as it was, he had to come face-to-face with them in a near-identical situation to the day before’s match. RED briefcase in hand, jogging out of the RED base, and running right into the barrel of their Heavy’s beloved gun.

 

Everyone seemed to freeze, waiting for a reaction.

 

“There ya are!” BLU Scout shouts, arms flailing skyward, completely oblivious to the baseball bat and briefcase respectively held in each one. “Do ya even know how hard it was ta find ya today?”

 

They eye him warily, but the RED Heavy doesn’t fire his gun and his Medic hasn’t made any sudden moves with his bonesaw, so Scout assumes they’re okay with this for a minute.

He drops his arms, clicking the briefcase on his back and letting the bat sag, so that the end rested in dusty soil.

 

He checks that his headset microphone is clicked up and off, first of all.

 

“Look, I just wanted ta say I’m sorry about… the whole thing from last match. We’re gonna kill each other every day for who knows how long, and I’m good with that, but I wasn’t… killing RED yesta-day, it was… someone else. An’ I’m sorry I kinda bludgeoned ya ta death while freakin’ out… because… uh, shit, _I had a plan to explain dis earlier._ ” He wasn’t really sure where he was going with this, it just needed to come out.

 

“Da, can understand.” The RED Heavy said, finally. “Seen that look before, not seeing RED, but someone else. Did not hold it against leetle BLU Scout.”

 

“Herr Heavy ist correct, ve do not hold ze event against you. Now, if zhat is resolved, zhen I really must insist you hand over our briefcase or I vill cut you down to size,” grinned the enemy Medic, beaming sinisterly and holding up his weapon.

  


BLU Scout beams back, “Oh yeah? How ‘bout ya come and take it, then?”

 

Throwing himself around the Heavy, and out towards the battlefield, as the large man bellows with laughter behind him and that all-familiar metallic clicking of a gun barrel whirring starts up. He dodges in an arc, trying to goad the pair into chasing him right into BLU Sniper’s range of fire… and succeeds. Laughing as the pair fall to indiscriminate bullet wounds to the head, and knowing he’d get an Assist Bonus for that one.

 

The BLU base was close, so he didn’t bother with the can of _BONK!_ , after all, there were at least three teammates streaming out of respawn right now who he could use for meatshields.

 

And that’s right about when things went real wrong, real fast.

Something hit the ground behind him with a ‘ _thhhhwup_ ’, that didn’t even sound like it was really a noise something could make; then he was being blasted through the air and into the BLU base wall. He may have used a few choice words his Ma’d wash his mouth out for, while propping himself up again, from flat on his stomach.

 

The RED Scout used the distraction to run out of the base, behind his Demoman, BLU intel strapped to his back and pistol out.

 

While BLU Soldier turned his rockets on the RED demolitions expert, BLU Scout flung the briefcase towards Pyro, who was toddling over.

 

“Take it inta the base, buddy, ‘cause I’m gonna need a minute.” he calls, and the arsonist looks at him, at the briefcase, back to the Scout, and finally picks the RED intel off the ground. Happily making mumbled noises as he wanders back inside.

 

Right up until Scout hears a muffled scream.

 

It causes him to look up and realise in the distraction, Engie’s been backstabbed and presumably Pyro had too. Damn it, the RED Spy was around.

 

Scratch that, he thought while screaming, the bastard was hamstringing his son. Fuck that hurt.

 

“I am sorry, Nathaniel… but zhis is what you signed up for, _mon petit fils_.” And damn, could the Scout hear that shit-eating grin in his accented tone. He spat out a few French curses he had secretly learned, and got cuffed about the ear for it. “Be thankful I leave you your life zhis time.”

 

“ _Fuck you too, Dad._ ” he retorts, probably at open air, as the pressure of the man fades.

 

God, his legs hurt, is he supposed to… kill himself or something when this happened?

Oh yeah, wait a minute… he flicks down the microphone on the headset. “Hey uh, don’t suppose ya near homebase by any chance, doc?”

 

“Ach, vhat have you done, Scout?” chides the man, voice crackling with heavy gunfire in the background. “If it is serious, shout ‘MEDIC’, und I get a read-out of your location on my medigun’s display. _HEAVY, TO ZE LEFT_! INCOMING!”

 

“Uh…” he really wasn’t sure WHAT constituted ‘serious’ in a war where people were often blown to pieces only to reappear minutes later fully intact. “On a scale of one ta ten, how wouldja usually rank being hamstrung by ya dad?”

 

“Vhat? He did _vha_ -... nevermind, I vill be zhere in a moment, Heavy has just regained zhe BLU briefcase from zhe opposing Scout.” Medic informs, and the line goes quiet.

 

It’s nearing midday, so the heat is bearing down like nothing else the Scout’d ever experienced before. _“So this is how bacon feels when ya cook it…”_ he mumbles to no one in particular. Surprised no one else has come by recently.

 

He’s taken aback by the sudden sensation of the medigun’s blue beam, as it envelops and heals; muscles, tendons, ligaments, flesh and blood, all slipping back to where it needs to be in seconds. And Scout relaxes briefly, finally free of the discomfort; before overheal sets in and every atoms in his body starts to buzz with extra energy.

 

“ _Holy shit, thanks doc!_ ” he shouts, bounding up. The German looks tired, sweaty, but satisfied at a healing well done. Scout hefts his scatter-gun. “Now, I’m gonna go get our briefcase back from _dear old dad_ …”

 

-

 

To say BLU won the match, was an understatement.

 

 _Dominated_ , would be a better way of describing the situation. Once BLU Scout took out Spy, Engie had ten minutes to get his buildings up to where they needed to be; Pyro could run off and ‘play’ with the REDs for a bit without worrying about Spy-checking, and Scout could drag the briefcase back to victory while his teammates annihilated the others.

 

It was pretty good, the feeling.

He didn’t get quite the same buzz from the idea of a humiliation round, though. His teammates assured him that, once he’d been the target during one, he’d get why it was much better to be the one doing the hunting. He’d shrugged in an ‘ _agree to disagree_ ’ kinda way, and let them have it.

 

Only really participating by accident, when he found his wide-eyed and weaponless opposite hiding under a table in the BLU base. He offered to just sneak the kid out, but the RED sneered as if that was the most ridiculous thing BLU could have said; so he compromised by putting a bullet dead between the other Scout’s eyes. Didn’t feel great, but at least the kid hadn’t had to end the day in a hundred pieces or full of arrows.

 

He got a headstart on the showers, while the others were still toying with the rest of the hiding REDs.

 

-

 

Dinner was raucous and rowdy. It was nice, familiar.

 

And everyone dispersed to do what they would afterwards.

Tinker with things, clean weapons, get sloshed, watch Star Trek, have a long talk on polish literature ( _Scout didn’t even comprehend how Medic and Heavy could be so engrossed in that stuff_ ), or write a letter home to Ma… let her know you were okay, and that you had killed ya dad at least once that day.

 

It should invite an interesting phonecall, at least.

 

-

 

“ _YA DID WHAT?_ ”

 

He held the receiver at arm’s length, and it was still loud enough to deafen. Several teammates in the common area looked on in amusement at the Scout.

 

“To be fair, Ma, he did kinda hamstring me and had it coming.” he responds, pre-emptively holding the phone out for when she shouted, “ _HE DID WHAT_?”

 

He’s trying not to laugh.

 

“Honey, you remember what ya Ma taught ya and aim fer his kneecaps next time ‘round. Hard fer someone to get away, when they can’t even stand up.” She reminds, one of the many little insights into her life before her children (and occasionally after), and the fights she’d been in. “And if ya got the gun, but ya want ‘em to suffer…”

 

He rolls his eyes, “Yeah Ma, I remember where ya said the nerve cluster sits in ya back. Thanks, though.”

 

“Anytime, baby. You be good and kill that other team, but don’t forget ta come home for Christmas holidays, ya brothers are bringing their families around. Haven’t told ‘em where ya are yet, so they’re worried… and I want back-up when I tell ‘em.” She pauses, laughing. “Oh, and ask that cute little number in the purple dress to come ‘round again… either you get her or I do, honey. So move fast.”

 

She’s still laughing when he hangs up the phone, slightly shocked. Scout never anticipated having to fight his mother for Miss P’s affections… but it was going to make the holiday dinner more interesting.

 

-

 

It wasn’t smooth sailing from there on out.

 

There were firsts… humiliation rounds, being torn apart by heavy’s weapon-fire, rocket-jumping with Solly. Sneaking a swig of Scrumpy with Demoman ( _and giggling about it like kids, even though they both knew Engie was fully aware what had happened and disapproved_ ), learning random words in other languages ( _mostly of the swear kind_ ) to call his opponents as they died.The first time he died to a Pyro and BLU Spy actually met him in respawn to talk the Scout out of his panic ( _as the masked man was the most frequent victim and understood how the boy was feeling_ ). Engineer showing him how to drive stick-shift on the open road and also how to build a toaster that could fly. Miss P showing the teen how to quickly dismember a body and dispose of the unfortunate sucker before it got gross under the desert sun. Sniper letting him drop a jar of jarate on his dad mid-battle… little things like that.

 

And there were lasts… like all attempts to flirt with Miss Pauling, who was apparently more interested in Scout’s Ma than she was in either of the Class’s members. Which was fine, but weird… because, that was his Ma.

 

Sometimes the nightmares would happen, late at night. The past, something that happened that day… but it wasn’t like he was alone.

Sure, he occasionally felt awkward traipsing to the common room or infirmary to find someone at an insane time of early morning… but someone was generally always about to talk. And if they weren’t, most BLUs weren’t adverse to a knock on the door, and a blanket-wrapped Scout standing there bedraggled and searching for comfort, expression asking for entry.

 

(The few that were quite verbal about not liking him doing it, never actually turned him away, though. Spy apparently had a heart after all; and knew quite a few French lullabies his dad did, but neither of them would ever admit that to the rest of BLU. _They had reputations to uphold._ )

 

-

 

The trial period ended.

 

And he stayed.

 

Being BLU’s Scout was… like finding a piece of himself that he had lost this whole time. He grew, with them, even if sometimes the team got annoyed by his childishness and taunts, or silly stunts. They never minded too much.

 

All in all, things were pretty good.

  



End file.
